Did you capture spring yet?
Take it into your greedy hands
and dress yourself in lilacs
(in jasmine, in ripe fruit?)
it stains your strange mouth
drunk with plum wine

Do you still smell of honey?
Hide your palms
your sticky fingers
beneath your contrived sweetness

I keep picturing you
drenched with dew
carelessly imagining
that you, too
are a daughter of the earth
even though the sun
scalds your thin shoulders
(and she thinks
you quite deserve it, I believe)

you cannot stand wet soil
and you are only truly at home
beneath the shade
of your very own
(very sad
poor girl)
weeping willow