The moon wanes
over the Eastern Sea, birds
shake off the dew
into a mist, thin as fading stars.
Only she remains,
motionless, red sleeves glistening
in the false dawn,
as if unable to rise under
the weight of a leaden heart.
                         Too many lovers:
a chest of silks and
discarded hairpins.  Still,
each morning, she plucks
a fresh blossom to lace into 
her hair;  each evening,
returns it to the damp earth.