I also write poems.
Soundscape
In the nighttime quiet of the plague
A moth flies through my window,
Flutters, banks, can’t find the way back out,
And with the tip of one brown wing
Makes my wineglass a tiny cymbal.
Kishhhhhhhh
Shimmering on the air,
Fading to silence
Like all the other sounds
Lost in the vaporous mountain light
And shaggy creeks
Around this house which is our home:
The creaky floor that warns us of assassins;
Bamboo leaves, softly susurrating
In the breeze which stirs the windchime;
The rush of wind through restless cedars;
Then, like some vengeful god,
Thunder crumpling darkness in its fist
Until the rain explodes.
