InsaneJournal

Poetry
Sometimes, I write poetry. I'm not very good at it, because I rarely pay attention to form and syllables and stresses and whatnot (also, I'm not very good because I do it so rarely), but sometimes, I end up with something I like to keep.


Storm
The pear tree bows
its head to heavy-bellied iron -
the breeze breathes snow.

Summer
Butterflies trace
the skeleton of sunlight
over lazy azaleas.

Grief
Frost blooms stiff
chrysanthemum on red lacquer fans.
Winter comes early.

Waiting
Handless like ghosts
we hide arms in trailing sleeves,
whispering of spring.