coming unstitched—
even the fake flowers
grow old
the pain is still there
weeping willow
my father cut down
regretting something I said
I turn the lampshade
to hide the seam
scattered crocuses
as if someone had planted
birdsong
cold spring morning—
close the window
or listen to the warbler?
not so different
veined spring leaf
and my ancient hand
fifty years ago: seeds
before that, nothing—
oak trees outside my window