Last Opus

This is a difficult time For us to paint our desires On unstarched canvasses For the benefit of those Who expect masterpieces Discoloured and faded Are our once green forests Where we sowed seeds of dream-poplars Amongst wet stones and ferns Our fingers smudged with hope Who would believe We have burnt our doubts in flames of maple leaves Who would imagine We did a waltz under falling cherry blossoms Who on earth knows we were syllables of a haiku But I need your small hands To lift straws From storm-beaten haystacks For me To weave our effigies