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.


Other Product of this creator

© 2020 Canadarts All Rights Reseved.