When a feeling
is peeled, I find 
a broken bureau
beneath my skin.

Cypress crackling.  
Memories exposed.
Wounds half open.
The river washes
thoughts impounded 
inside a lotus 
that’s overgrown. 

Do not settle for 
dry malt seeds
if you can grow
much more, a pond 
cannot contain
thy eternal tree. 

If I reach for 
what’s needed to 
feel free again, 
I’ll reverberate. 

When it’s time for
my willow to lose 
its cotton catkins,
may I return gentile
underground even 
after my red roots 
have died for good.  
Signature Lina Ru