In China, ripening of plumps
concurs with early summer rains
people used to call mei-yu, plum
rains, that made them stay at home
and didn’t go out to see their friends.
But aren’t poems too a lot like growing
plumps meant to help us move our minds
and hearts from flower brave to blossom
even from the covers of cold and snow
to fruit with ample flesh and new life-
bearing pits and do not strings of rain
summon lines of calligraphic sounds
that make us listen & through which
our souls seek to go out and meet?
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