Winter Park

in an empty
winter morning park,
the autumn is still lingering,
welcoming me with a red-carpet
covered with brown leaves.

Nude trees are seducing me
as if women in red-light street
are doing for stranded men.

The high and blue sky
is woman’s mind
not wanting to say good-bye.

The winter maybe is the owner of the park,
but my heart hugs a piece of autumn sky
and my pocket cherishes a crumbled fallen leaf
and my hand grabs a naked twig.

The autumn driven away by the winter
is building its nest in me.
I meet a woman whose name is Autumn,
a woman who blossoms only in autumn;
a little bird in a winter park,
that is singing farewell,
but won’t leave.

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