Soundscape215

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.

 

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