Memoirs of spring.

I.

Blossoming plum tree.
How well the falling petals
conceal the many abortions,
of your unwanted children.


II.

Falling petals from plum trees,
weave a white carpet, so soft.
Never a more spectacular show,
Of death.


III.

Plum flowers like mothers
Shed and sacrifice their petals.
To give to the ripe babies,
a gift of safe arrival.

Restrained.

The bee longs
for the blossoms yonder,
Looking through the glass window.

Love.

It hides behind the clouds, peeking.
It glows of a secret,but is too shy to tell.
The moon must be in love with me.

Ripples.

Ripples run around,
to tell everyone,
a fly's mischief.

Clouds.

The weavers of the clouds of imaginations,

work relentlessly, day and night.

For the children are growing

every second.

Judging Love.

Call it not "just a twig," love.
From the heart of a thorny bush,

in the middle of a desert oasis,

sprayed with glacial water,

wrapped in a japanese paper,

It's not a rose, but

call it not "just a twig," love

and never consider it such. 

A matter of time.

Glistening, basking on the rock -turtle

Vanished, not a clue,

Just water and ripples.

Set in Stone.

There -set in stone,

Carved a thousand years ago,

Now a crinkly mirror, aged with time

A weathered lacquer,

Moth infested, and the white ants too.

The paint flaking, to reveal the softness inside

A broken edge, uncovering a lighter shade

Cracked and burnt - charred living

A fuming smell of carbon and rancid death

Of various belongings and keepsakes.

People and things.

The past, peeking.
Of nails and betrayals.

A history, a struggle, a story about love- or loves

There lies my heart, set in stone.