She thrust herself at life, a honey bee
Thorax deep in each quivering corolla
Flew pollen spangled each day back to the hive
she was willing, too, to go with what might happen
like seeds of roadside grass on fortune's scarf -
borne off to be sown elsewhere, and grow new.
There is the unknown music of the willow
In Han the Han moon was her companion
One night it clung to her, it's shadow grew long and thin
The next morning she was gone.
That night the Han moon Pierced the sky.
In a strange, far off city, a western moon rises
on a bride's bolted shutters.
In that place, they say, the flowers are made of snow.
They buried her in thte sand.
I remember her eyebrows. Who does not?
As for our lives? We've no portrait painter to blame.
Her tomb is a green blip in thte western desert. The wind howls.
You would too if you were there.
