Sharon Lin

Left Behind

All those wooden pens you carved from the sycamore
out front, ink still staining the nibs from the last words
on the gridded parchment.

philosopher without philosophy, adrift in a monsoon
swept up by the currents tiding away the last days of your youth

always hearing of other trails, that the walk would end
               at a golden lake. But instead of rice cakes and lotus flowers
               you find concrete

tattered threads, fingers aching from cold winds. I think about
the graceful strokes tacked to the sycamore, the lyrics like light
shining down on the granite pathways.

Sharon Lin is a poet from New York City.

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