Longing for a breeze.
In first half of three hundred and sixty five days I shall be grateful,
snaking up to tears as the rains drop.
Hence in that moment, I am not alone at my boat desk
because they lean me to woods where
I was about tangle in rest of my life,
a vine.
In another six months and half of a year I shall murmur to the cold wind,
exhaling a distanced Christmas wind downhill,
and those finger printed roots labor a hustle:
I could see no terrace to hold.
There is no spring wind to veer my arms forwards
when they are stretching towards a dawning sky.
But lips are unscathed as rains pat or
long for a taste—————
an eye to eye when they long last the sun set and rise.
Bringing out, blue thunder or whatever bound to be,
I was born in May of the first summer rain when
nature's womb plunge deeper and sharper.
And those leaves leech a full mouth of life,
That, me and roots, come back again.
YOU ARE READING
Tigress from the east
PoetryA poetry collection written by a Chinese girl. Biggest life goal of her: sitting in perfect balance of daylights and nights, back towards a mysterious naked tree, a cup of chai is better than coffee. Thinking, turn a being as living
