China teacups float on ponds,
and birchbark curls between my fingers.
Lilies bloom, white whispers in the night.

Nymphs hang the themselves from willows’ leaves
the roots littered with sparrow bones
and the husks of last summer’s corn.

We build our houses on a lake of tears,
but the salt eats out our hearts
so on autumn evenings we listen
to the caterpillars cocooned in the eaves.

Winter skies turn salt to sand,
and I climb the highest highest hill
to lose myself in heather,
thistles and brambles and whistling wind.

When swans drown in cherry blossoms,
I fall asleep to the lullaby of hounds and horns
and horses floating gossamer through trees.

The fox, swift and red-footed,
knows her fate and flies to meet it
with her jaws open wide.