Curved Haunches

I rise upon curved haunches.
Soft petals are my lips,
thus quietly they speak.
And dry mosses for my eyes.

I hear a sound insistent.
Staccato rhythms are my life,
so surely do they beat.
And whereupon I find an answer.

I wait with stubborn reasons.
Resemblance I have seen,
So natural now appearing.
And soon I must come home.

I think with dull found pride.
Sprouts in barren places,
so modestly must they grow.
And may winter never come.

Let me read to you,
My reams of poetry.
Sprinkle blossom letters
Upon your pond,
And sing to you the oldest strum
Of chords as yet unknown.