Part of this first piece of sadness comes
from a mother's mouth (one can only know
her heart was louder). How desperate is
the tree whose fruit once ripened falls
to where it soon forgotten rots alone?
Can you hear the river howl, its shifting
rocks and sands bear no sorrow but her
hands incapable of holding what she bore
search for them more often. Who despairs
of severed love when love is like a door
and opens? Even I have longing
to be longed for.