Oh, no, it is impossible to tie down Spring.
Just as it is impossible to tie up
the weeping willows’ softest gold
before all else dares to swirl and heave.
Just as it is impossible to tie up early blooms,
infusing and spangling leafless plums.
And just as it is impossible to tie down
the rainbow skirts of those Immortals
dancing at the court of the Queen of Heaven
of which, somehow, the Chinese of old
and their poetesses knew. But how?
Just as it is impossible to call a poem
a poem if it’s void and dead to wonder
in which the want of soul stops and dies.
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