Year of yin: living memory

May, I want to hold you in my arms gently like a new born baby. So red and soft like a mouth. So tender and delicate like a wild rose.

My arms can not contain all of your quiet wisdom like the dead of night. So dark and soothing like a whisper. So thick and solemn like a smudge.

My feet cross gently through your pastures in the grey morning like lovers secret prayer cheek to cheek. So sweetly tempting like fresh bread. So warm and nimble like a candle. 

May, you have unburdened me in your shy wisdom, and carefully heaped on new cares for the watching. My life is full of your loving missives, and yet I fear all that you would offer me.

My eyes are weary from straining to see your shapeless form like moonlight on the mist. So vivid and ephemeral like a dream. So white and cold like fresh snow.

My pen falters to capture your silent musings like the roots that weave their history underground. So deliberate and deep like a well. So knotted and sturdy like a lock.

I welcome you dressed plainly in empty thoughts like a beggar turned messiah. So humble and weathered like a stepping stone. So wry and mischievous like aged whiskey.

May came to me on borrowed time. Gone before she was realized. Fleeting in retrospect, long in practice. Accompanied by her apprentices passionate carnal hunger and dire thirst for knowledge. Patiently she guided my hand, showing me how to paint sorrows and joys in the same stroke. All I can do is practice what she taught me as one hour becomes the next. Me always trying to out race the sun; her always waiting in the shadow. 


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