spring days feel a little salty
dry sun, a cold and hard ball of white
wind lifts our house
up to mid-air, a tree of peach blossom
slanting by a bazaar’s stone steps
like a half-stretch of pink sand
no rain, no green
no murmur…
thin growing voices
a county truck
passes by in a thunder
loaded with black petroleum
toward a plain of blooming spring flowers
this is just hypothetical
as for us, still suspended mid-air
through the city, sitting in a red icy theater
listening to “The Peach Blossom Fan,” the tune of spring woe
still so thick and soft, but for whom
Spring Drought
poetry
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