The rosebush,
wounded by thorns,
bled a color
as deep red
as rose petals.
If time and tide
search
my heart,
they will find
footprints
that no wave
can erase—
they are yours.
Your eyes
are stars.
When the heart
grows heavy
with darkness,
they shine brighter
in the sky
of memory.
Your memories
are the wine
in my stone jar—
a wine that grows
stronger
as it ages.
I will keep
filling my cup
with it,
until the day
the jar itself
shatters.
The shrubs
with unknown
yellow blossoms
that bloomed
in the month of mist
might be
the summer season’s
rebirth
of yellow flowers—
like memories
of love.
And like those
who parted
hoping to meet again,
a few butterflies
circle around
those yellow blooms.
In a crowd
of strangers,
everyone is lonely—
all who cannot recognize
each other
remain unfamiliar.
Yellow flowers and butterflies,
between them
the wind,
the passing time,
and yet another da
