You'd Rather Make Song With Your Sorrow

These are the days when the mist rolls in
early. It is late April, Spring. Over the hills
the hyacinths are singing—to another
hollowed out body. This one is yours,
alone, in fog-diffused light.

Some call this quiet despair. An earnest friend smiles,

but you'd rather make song with your sorrow.
You'd rather take your bone-weary body to the trees.
You'd rather bring your lips to hollowed-out bamboo

and breathe.