little poems where are you?

The art of losing isn’t hard to master; so many things seem filled with the intent to be lost that their loss is no disaster.

Sundays too my father got up early and put his clothes on in the blueblack cold, then with cracked hands that ached from labor in the weekday weather made banked fires blaze.

Beauty is not caused, It is.

Enough of osseous and chickadee and sunflower and snowshoes, maple and seeds, samara and shoot, enough chiaroscuro, enough of thus and prophecy and the stoic farmer and faith and our father and 'tis of thee, enough of bosom and bud, skin and god not forge…

That Love is all there is, Is all we know of Love; It is enough, the freight should be Proportioned to the groove.

her grandmother called her from the playground “yes, ma’am” “i want chu to learn how to make rolls” said the old woman proudly but the little girl didn’t want to learn how because she knew even if she couldn’t say it that that would mean when the old one…

Suppose we did our work like the snow, quietly, quietly leaving nothing out.

Sometimes I text my friends I’m crying and they reply lol.

You told the truth.

It is morning, Senlin says, and in the morning When the light drips through the shutters like the dew, I arise, I face the sunrise, And do the things my fathers learned to do.