Straw cloaks in spring

​I survived this severe winter.
​One thick with duck weed
​and long deep sighs.
​A poet refusing to
be a white monkey.
​Fit only for rice-grinding.

​Taking the scraps of
hope ​off my feet.
​I walk lightly, as though I am called.
​Such tender passion awaits.
​And they can see what
is shining within me.


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