I also write poems.
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.
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.