Meet me among the numbing fields
where the cream narcissus grows.
Where my desperate human voice sings
against the flow of the autumn winds.
Do you hear the pillars of my empathy crumbling?
The wicked Imbolc has passed,
leaving me naked and sick in the light
of longer days.
Yellow-trumpeted blooms of each joss flower
are caught swaying to the emptying sounds
of my apathy.
Where I have been patiently waiting for
the flowering blood of hyacinth.