Alven L. Robinson
The Leaves of Spring Still Fall
Three years on, the leaves of spring still fall.
The river views of pearl dawns are gone;
poems of dust have drifted from the shore.
Watching from afar, the moon appears across
her window; a pendant light rises in her eyes.
Silk threads linger in her gaze; smoke spirals
past forsaken skies.
A distant mountain stands above the broken mirror;
frozen trails reach beyond repose.
The night glows in shades of black; a messenger
is summoned through the rain.
The valley knows the farewells of the winding path;
damp eaves are melting in their pride.
When the edge of light is tattered, nothing moves
beyond the clouds of fortune.
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