my love flies over memory
like a white dove
through its leafless woods
and melt-water dribbling over moss

a fragmented life sways with the wind
in the distance on many roads
i have yet to travel, many things
will happen as they must

flowers are blooming in your heart
but there is no trace of the gardener
no matter how hard you deny it
you will still know it's me

the shadows on your wall
are fading to the color of cooling tea,
outside there are traces of spring
you can stand among green leaves
and moss-covered stream rocks

and still always be absent, distant,
like a teardrop, evaporating
in the spring sun, quivering in
transparency and transience

only love is the god of the heart--
only that white dove
that flies over memory