He misses me still, but that's old news.
He's missed me for so long now - he can do it in his sleep.

He does it while he eats alone at his desk,
while he runs for a train,
while the rain is coming down in sheets.
While a girl takes off her dress and he reaches for her,
his hands hesitate a decimal. He turns off the light,
and misses me.

It grows inside his chest, like a bonsai tree -
something natural but stunted.
Snipped and pruned carefully, but not allowed
to grow outside it's box. Not allowed to put down roots.

He hauled it off, across the sea.
Across China and the Middle East, he misses me.

Half a world apart, in Amsterdam I walk
with my eyes to the ground, all brown and grey.
Thinking of the planes and trains that bore him
away.
This has become second nature for me.

It's midnight in Tokyo, he sits at his desk
in the light from the street
thinking of trees, canals, red bricks, me
and when we sleep, he and I both,
it's with ghosts in the sheets.

they are our dreams
some slanted
some straight
all stranger
than our everyday

we marvel
at the creations
of our inner eye

we cling to them
in moments of loneliness

they are ours
only

The leaves are dying
Drifting down like falling snow
To see the veins which grow thin and pale
To hear their weathered limbs of grey cold
And when his bark and bite is no longer feared
And when her comfortable canvas is stripped away
No branch to catch a falling hand
No root to stretch nor wrap and rest
Too many names already carved
With no new branches left to trim
The colors once which changed with age
Now stay the same till clearer days
Perhaps the spring will no more grow
Perhaps this ends a present-day
But the leaves are dying ever still
And what's more concerning is
How they know, it is their way

down the time antediluvian
the search is continued
for a joyful jiffy
filled with fragrances
which birds endorse
by their skilful flight
synchronised,
and dancing tulips
in the eastern winds
those new buds
on tree branches
in month of march
glossy yet soft
that fill the greenery
in a dried canvas
of snow laden winter
and squirls
check their hiding places
hoping,jumping, running
climbing up and down
branch to branch..
as if nature
in its perpetual cycle
offers its bountiful
generously.

By AMOY

Leaves on the tree falling down to my feet..
Lay and sleep…... I say for you will  return to Mother earth..
You 'll see ……
You'll  meet many friends along the way...
Little feet, tiny feet, Mr. worm, Mr. Squirrel and old lady Wind...ohh...She's a Swirl!..
have fun  I say, for the rain will be here soon and days will still be bright til night falls and old man snow stirs ... brrrrr...brrrrr.. sending tiny little snow flakes our way ahhh ...ahhh....mother earth breaths again

springing through the tall trees
the misty drops danced as moisture
blossomed a rhythm with the breeze
surrounded dewed flowers softly swayed
gently overlapping the green grassy hill
moonlight walked across the peaceful air
floating with such an extraordinary thrill
like pearls around the neck of life raindrops fell
and nature's beauty gleamed everywhere

the
gibbon moon
shining
through the forest
climbing
tall trees and
nesting
on
soft green leaves
and
the
sleepy wooden
branches wondering
if
there is heaven

i remember being little when the
fire of my eyes still shone bright
my fingertips green with the world at the edge
i thought that someday i’d grow tall
like the linden trees
i wanted to stand before
things greater
than my imagination
experience the world with every
spare hundred dollars in my pocket
and now my branches have overgrown
and i can never be uprooted
so i stand tall and watch the planes overhead
flying to islands with names
i can’t pronounce
and i dream of the days when i was little
and still caught fire in my reflection