Lonely hearts bloom in old country homes
where rice wine once flowed through
uneventful existences; now, sophisticated
city wombs decline rural lips while sharp
mouths lament of lost traditions
beneath a blushing strawberry moon.

New paths need new feet.

Life is hard on dusty roads of discontent;
bright lights beckon young ladies with
promises of luxury and liberty as brothers
stay behind to reap a hollow harvest in
an era of transplantation and transmutation.
Would-be wives stretch for the stars above
forsaken farmers who dig their heels in,
waiting for clock hands to turn back.

New paths need new feet.

From foreign ports, fair faces appear to
work in familial gardens, seeking a better
life within sunrise’s coveted serenity.
Shall these hopeful flowers take root in
the domestic fold?  –  Or, will their
petals wither with the lavender ladies?

New paths need new feet.