That river is filled with mushrooms
	Yes, mother.  The river you soaked your hands in
	My past flows by.  The child in his red jacket exposes the
	skin of daylight.  He is picking mushrooms on the river, his
	basket full of smiles
	Do not enter the dark misery of the forest.  Mother
come back to the fairy tales with me:
	grandma hides the wolf in your voice, baring the day's teeth
	It's getting dark again.  Will my love get lost?  Mother, my
	childhood is gone forever
	Your hands bring the sound of water brimming from my eyes
	Do not go the lonely path of old age.  Mother
Mushrooms.  Butterflies dance in your silver hair
	The light is on.  I walk towards you, along the river.  The
	wolf in the fairy tale will die too, and the child do riffs
	on its teeth to go with the beautiful sounds of the road
	Memory pushes up like no end of pale, floating mushrooms
	carrying off the last of your years
	Go back inside.  Don't stand in pain, waiting for me
	Remember how my poems send signals.  I'll bring you songs of
	the vast fields
I'll describe for you the mushroom river

Xue Di Index
The East Village Poetry Web
Xue Di