KWAN YIN'S BLOSSOMS IN WEYMOUTH

SUDDENLY,"MY" HANDS ARE MY FATHER'S HANDS ON

EARLY -MORNING-BUS-SEAT-RAIL-BEFORE-ME.

HANDS THAT HELD ME,THAT DID NOT KNOW THEIR OWN FATHER'S HANDS

THAT SAVED ME FROM MY BABY-TEARS-AND-FEARS

AT THE END OF THE ORCHARD UNDER BLOSSOMS.

AND THE SOFT-SLIPPERED LITTLE-LADY

CLUTCHED AT "MY" HANDS WITH MY MOTHER'S HANDS

AS I STEADIED HER HOME ONE NIGHT

WITH HER PAINTED NAILS AND RINGS ON HER FINGERS AND BELLS ON HER TOES,"HE SHALL HAVE MUSIC WHEREVER HE GOES" MY MOTHER SANG UNDER BLOSSOMS.

AND MOTHERS ARE MOTHERS, OH! WHERE DO THEY GO? WHERE DO THEY GO?

THESE HANDS ARE TO HAND-OUT

AND HOLD-OUT

AND HANG-ON-TO.

AN OFFERING OF

OUR HELPING HEARTS

UNDER BLOSSOMS.

(winter 2011/2012

written on the road

around Weymouth)

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