This poem was printed in 'The Paris Review,' issue 183, Winter 2007
Spring comes quickly: overnight
the plum tree blossoms,
the warm air fills with birdcalls.
In the plowed dirt, someone has drawn a picture of the sun
with rays coming out all around
but because the background is dirt, the sun is black.
There is no signature
Alas, very soon everything will disappear:
the birdcalls, the delicate blossoms. In the end,
even the earth itself will follow the artist's name into oblivion.
Nevertheless, the artist intends
a mood of celebration.
How beautiful the blossoms are - emblems of the resilience of life.
The birds approach eagerly.
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