Willie Lin

Already, the crops are failing.
The crows shuttling back and forth,
breaking branches, dropping stones.
How easy to read sadness
into the empty room. It is yours.
All season the family has been filling
pots and jars with river water
heavy with red silt. They are tired
of that color. Cover the moon.
It is good to be inconsolable.
It is good to leave the fish uneaten,
to sing a little, sweep the floor.
Traces of breath, abundant as winter,
the uncreated memory of you.