watching finches comb

the willow’s rain-washed catkins…

I wish your hurts

were still no more than tangles

in your baby-blond hair


one by one

alighting in the cherry


the dusk and I

gather our thoughts


how could we know

it would end so soon?…

I run my fingers

over your smile

immortal in monochrome


catkin wind

this last day of March

a lion

in her purr

pollen on her whiskers


in these veins

that map my skin

the river runs deep

he finds in me

a doorway to the sea


all too human

we map archipelagos

and plot the stars

yet pin our hopes

on cherry blossoms



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