I wonder if the human heart is like the weather.
Does it, in spring, blow hard by degrees,
One day hot, the next cold, damp, and grey?
Is it ever frozen by winter's sorrows, or
Cut off in its promise by a late frost or
An early storm leaving only moments;
Scrap paper and dried roses like fallen leaves?
Does it ever have the constancy of tropical summer,
Before the rain, hot and still, smothering you with
Patches of brilliantly colored air sewn into a
Crazy quilt of romance and desire, touched here
And there with thick thread of pungent fruit;
Of fish sauce and tittering laughter as we both smile
Coyly, embarrassed by our sudden shyness?
To Luong Thi Mai Hong
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