the wind will shift, run fingertips
through the long grasses, combing them
in feathered, cat’s-pawed fields.
I will plant trees, an orchard
at the forest verge, will feed the deer
on mast, will prune the watersprouts
for kindling. A cultivated wild,
a sweet disorder carefully distilled
and in spring the wind will shift,
will drive fallen plum blossoms
before the livid dawn.

1. 
   Kai 2008 04 26 at 4:02:23 am

   Gorgeous, bro, feels like a Chinese rhythm and theme. Who you been chillin with?

2. 
   nina 2008 04 27 at 11:03:05 am

   I love this.