Your work is radiance,
my work is polishing the mirror.
You pour, I overflow.
Breath-milk spilling on the lingam,
awakening stone.
Seeds of desire have been offered and cooked
but the nectar of yearning still gushes
from the broken stem.
Famished, naked, Spring wanders
into the garden.
I listen to melting snow.
Windsong in plum bud twigs.
Feral rose among thorns, this
empty grail, patiently awaiting the bee knight.
I pay attention
to the least and smallest who burst free,
because that is what happened
to my heart.
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