the fear of dying
has been put away
like a heavy coat
we no longer want to wear
orange poppies will erupt
in ecstasy across weary
expectant fields
but our grandmothers
will stand unyielding
shouting to us in Cantonese
to carry that heavy coat
to see beyond spring
to ready yourself
for the perennial white ghost
that will say I was here first
I am the gold mountain

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