Earth-touching clouds hush the forest.
A terrarium of stillness
shrouds the bird realm.
Speaking as if from another source,
‘Apapane the ventriloquist
knits its calls, releasing
like a ball of string
notes that flutter to the floor as leaves,
typing trills that glitter the branches.
The cloud dome diverts the wind
the way a boulder divides a river,
rerouting the occasional car
from turning down the gravel road.
There are many ways to pass through.
There are many ways to exit.
Solitude expands the sense of time,
on this side of the hourglass,
the sand in short supply.
I frittered it away in such
a hurry, the arguments, the hostility,
grabbing at what
I thought would make me happy,
so many missed opportunities
to make, in the end, amends.
I take heed from the old sages.
I do not miss
the fickleness of the fleeting world.
With my books and papers,
I scratch insects out of stone,
patch and reclaim torn threads.
The stitches are far from perfect.
Tobacco-drunk and countless tea cups,
I retreat, content beside the twig-fed fire.
All that I need is to want
nothing more. Rising into clouds,
the wisps of smoke impersonal as my signature.
Source: Poetry (October 2020)
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