Leaving the winter pagoda

This entry is part 3 of 15 in the series Morning Porch Poems: Spring 2016

What we wanted was quiet.
What we wanted was salt packed in the marrow of bone.
It was slow and cold for an entire season.
But now, trees explode with asterisks of white.
The tongue tires of the heavy oils in meat.
We admire the trembly crowns of parsley
and the gash of moonlight above the gardens
where people are walking among multicolored lanterns.

 

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

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