bring two cups of tea
to the eye of the storm
and let us drink them
under the cold barrage of voices

let us write a book on the soil
with a preface written by gods
and a dandelion index as boundless as time

let us write about an earth
in which tree leaves are sacred
its rain is the verdict of fluttering
and its children are the blue pellucid of life
and its people prostrate to the skies

let us speak of an earth
on which tulips don't grow*
swallows stay and plant dandelions

let us write a book
in the diameter of dreams
in the length of smile and width of tears
with the weight of seedlings
by the ink
dripping from the lips of spring

— M. Melia