The heart and its many breaking vases,*

wintered seed beds and wayward plots. Evenings 
outline its crumbling arches, mornings its moss-
grown paving stones. Who will help restore its 
estate, untangle the reeds, call the water back 
with its gold-scaled, leaping retinue? Faithful stone 
angels loft their basins of verdigris; rivers chisel
passages for the arrival of the monsoon.

One green unscrolling: 
hills and mountains ache
for the brush of fog. 


*with thanks to Cynthia T. Buiza