Palm

Why do I hold out the palm of my hand
When I could want for nothing more —
Yellow pollen scatters in the spring
Freezing snow gathers in the winter.

Is this really the palm of my hand?
Mute iron chains rooted in the depressions,
Fingerprint children on five hills
Still pretending not to dream of green grass.

Somewhere a bird cries out
It no longer flies into the palm of my hand,
A gold coin falls in the rustling leaves,
Is this the price of the art I dreamed in youth?

When my family is sound asleep,
I spend the night holding my palm out the window,
Howling like a gust of cold wind
My palm weeps in the light of the moon.