The crescent moon by the eve slants into the old window, see, even the inkstone, the old ink holds last year's stars, cold and old. You once laughed and said my grinding ink was like star-stealing raid. Finger-stained with half cup tea, miss warm warm the front of my gown. In the stone lane, mosses grown over the third step. all alone on the dooring, patina bites the old date fading from sight. I've counted sails from spring to fall, the or sounds lost in the tides call, the wind drifts through the long street, bringing the fragrance from your hair's meat.

I keep the lamp lit by the creaking half window In the nice side the rain under the e What's how many miles of frost and wet You said when plums in bloom you'd return to this sweet home The thin spring robe is gone replaced by winter snow all along In the bronze mirror Frost climbs onto my brows and coast still I hold the land For a turn on Even if palm petals fall another spring still I recall