​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.

​A scent of spring in the air.
​Books, my pen and you.
​Dragging winter’s chills away.

The first rays of a spring
sun hit the west lake.
And everything floats above.

​

Lost in thought, not quite.
Thickening crowds
as if I am crossing worlds.
A child echoes her mother’s
call, filled with stars.
Hometown names
are discussed.
And the baby cries,
in every language.
All this on the metro
to Longxiangqiao.

There are boats
here in Hangzhou.
Between buildings
and buildings.
Each passing a fragile
sequence break.
An unsettling state
of creation for all of us.
Yet, I like to watch
them come and go.
There is a gentleness
and courage in
lone boats having
a life with purpose.
I know this so well.
​

​The spreading days
​and all there is is rain.
​Not a single eye
​tinged with sadness.
​
​I think my soul
must be a cloud.
​Feverish with thoughts
​of love’s deep and lustful seas.

​So, I walk in the rain.
​For all the love
that comes my way.
​I am sure you
understand, my love

Today I can look at the
sky and it is not new.
Today I can look at the river
and it is looking at my face.
With nothing carried in my karma.

I walk away from the
winter that held no spring.
Towards the news of my soul.
A butterfly’s torn wing, born again.
And the world owes me nothing.
​

On a train zooming
my mind wanders.
The minutiae of life
is all around me.
Window-to-window
Kisses blowing.
My reflection travelling
towards the future.
​

​The sun rises over
​the mountain peaks.
​A solitary tune by a poet.
​Exhausted by the narrow
​paths of indifference.
​But my spring breeze
​is always there.
​Garnished with jade
​from an island retreat.
​The taste of sea air,
​just devine.

Now I will teach business.
A new morning symphony.
Faith mountains can
move a sleepy pulse.
And the self can be converted.
“No mud, no lotus”
says Thich Nhat Hanh.
It is a chance to take.

This morning a magpie
call resounded.
The sweet sound
of scented spring love.
The future is no
longer frigid.
And an age of devotion
is born again.