Yang Mu

A Flurry of Snow


What flitted back across the hills yesternight, without a sound
I thought was a long buried matter of the heart
from the deepest recesses of a valley wallowing in death
With my own eyes I saw her open a little doorway onto the garden
tentatively venture forth, look here, there, then
promptly disappear, leaving, in the end, still
the very heart of winter, nothing but traces




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