Here Flow Streams of Weeping Willow Leaves
I am small, yet pronounced in syllables of hurricane force winds when I unlock the boundaries of my mind. My eyes are caramel like the soft earth of my home country and as they stare into your soul they whittle you down like landslides in the middle of spring. The shed the waters from their dams that are there for colorful palettes of shadows of sun and shadows in night, but they pour at all the right times—the wrong times turn right for lessons are learned like the memorization of rare bird songs. My lips become hills falling on skin ready to collapse from love and all the treasures hidden in your mines are dug in deeper kept from wandering eyes. My hair falls down my face like the weeping willow branches by the pond, gently like this soul.
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