Spring Mire
When I place a piece of ice
On the palm of my hand,
I feel a curious intimacy
With myself.
![](http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/b/bd/TangledHair-orn.jpg/30px-TangledHair-orn.jpg)
Rain falls
With a sound more harsh
Than my tearing of a letter
Which I must hide from the others.
![](http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/b/bd/TangledHair-orn.jpg/30px-TangledHair-orn.jpg)
Though I well know that this world
Is a vault to which my life is entrusted,
I come to grow weary of its musty smell.
![](http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/b/bd/TangledHair-orn.jpg/30px-TangledHair-orn.jpg)
On the palm of my hand
I place a bit of sand
And blow upon it,
But wet the sand comforts me not.
![](http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/b/bd/TangledHair-orn.jpg/30px-TangledHair-orn.jpg)