When you're sad, steam
from a spoonful of rice turns into
            a hot spring. You peel off
your clothing and walk 
            into the terracotta basin
filled with mountains of laundry.
           The waters glisten like words
you used to know: earth-scented,
           woody, herbaceous. Vines
laden with honeysuckle hold
           their breath, watching 
your progress without comment.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.