I am a white butterflies’ composer,
the joy flourishes
in the bright songs of May
and the rains listen to how the herbs grow.

The green smolders on the eye’s valleys
the days and nights are caught together,
the mountain peaks pull down the sky
and shake it off for stars over the plains.

The cherry trees rip earlier and smile.

The pyramids glitter from the polishing
pale gold birds
have no wings to fly,
but they imagine them.