The pear blossoms fade and die,
and I can’t keep them from falling.
The breeze has passed, pollen dust settled, and now the evening comes as I comb out my hair. There is the book, the inkstone, the table. But he who was … Continue reading
Spring after spring, I sat before my mirror. Now I tire of braiding plum buds in my hair. I’ve gone another year without you, shuddering with each letter— … Continue reading