Remains (A poem from 'Wounded Bud')


Of your mother and father all that remains
is you.
Of the bee and flower, just honey.
Of the master and disciple only
a quivering white stream
pouring from bowl to cup.
Why ask if there are one or two?
Compare us, my beauty, to melting snow.
Give up perfection, take up laughter and tears.
Drown in what you are.