22 Aug 2016 – The House of Paper

I call on women
who look more like little girls.
Their house of paper
hidden in those misty heights
by restless pine boughs.

A roaring river
crashing down the mountain side,
hides ancient temples.
Prostrate pilgrim patrons pray
both here, and yonder.

The houses shuttered
once the last cicada sings,
the final leaf falls,
no more pilgrims left to flee
the first-born snowflake.

But now the cherry
reigns preeminent on Earth,
and I have journeyed
here to trade my wrinkled cloak,
for blushing laughter!