My death sometimes
weighs more on my mind,
than a mountain.
And sometimes,
less than a single
plum blossom.
A shadow that I revisit
from time-to-time.
When the flowers
bloom in spring,
and the silver moon,
turns the rivers winter cold.
The remaining years,
growing old – and brushed
by the north wind.
I will turn back
for a few glances,
and smile at my old friend.
Drifting, and waiting for me.
But not today will we meet.