Wednesday, July 31, 2019
AGAINST POETRY IN ENGLISH
My father did not
waste his words.
He chewed them.
And when he spoke
folks listened.
I learned from that.
Give me one
plum blossom
to make a line,
a poem, a life.
Give me one
mountain hermitage
and enough
silence to make
each syllable
an explosion
of joy. Give me
an aha moment
when once is
enough, and
more than enough.
