Dried pink Roses, an offering scented with pure Rose oil by my weary hands
Resting Buddha with two friends
“Altar (#3)” from “Broken Chord Sequence”
Why cry over dried flowers?
They’re meant to be straw.
Why cry over miniature roses?
They’re meant to be small.
Why cry over Buddha’s hand citron?
Why cry over the hidden flower?
Why cry over Mother’s burnt forehead?
Her votive deathglow, her finest hour.
“Altar (#3)” from “Broken Chord Sequence,” from Rhapsody in Plain Yellow by Marilyn Chin.
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One may have a blazing hearth in one's soul and yet no one ever come to sit by it. Passers-by see only a wisp of smoke from the chimney and continue on the way. ~Vincent Van Gogh~ Pull up a chair...
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