In futile effort, he bent his back into a rounded shape of a turtle,
Imagining it hard as that shell hiding all he loved.
But it was not, and he cried out in grief, collapsing under the weight of loss.
He realized at last that to hold back tears is to hold back time.
He could do neither, and it crushed him.
Fire is burning around me.
The air vanishes, consumed by smoke.
The very ground crumbles beneath the heat.
I sit calmly in the early hours,
Gazing into the morning mists.
I sip a cup of tea as I read Ha Jin.
Which of these is real?
Both. Neither. One. The other.
See what you want.
I will not choose for you.
Listening is an art I wish to learn.
To hear beneath the words of others the flow of their life
And what they hold within that rhythm.
But also to float on the surface of their meaning
And catch the gleams of significance thereupon.
Will this knowledge startle my mind
Enough to kindle new understanding?
When we sit together in silence,
Will the unspoken conversation continue?
A susurration from our common heart
With no bruit to indicate disease?
Yes. I hope. Yes.
In each fist I hold a stone.
I open my left hand and let the stone drop.
It is white but in its descent
Turns three times, changing to black.
I open my right hand and let the stone drop.
It is black but in its descent
Turns naught, remaining black.
Before they strike the ground, each transforms into a bird.
The left stone a raven, the right stone a dove.
The raven is the color of sunlight.
The dove is the color of the midnight sky.
Each flies to alight on my face; each plucks out an eye.
Having been Cassandra, I now walk as Tiresias.
Though I had never struck serpents
Nor foolishly judged a heavenly duel
Nor even glimpsed an owl unfeathered,
I am blinded and transformed
Yet still possess the unfortunate gift granted me originally:
I speak true words but am not heeded,
My voice lost beneath the mocking laughter from the sky.
This is not my heart only
It is yours and yours and yours
The sighing rhythm of the world interrupted
The anguished catch in a singer’s wail
The mournful drone of a cello’s tuning
I do not nor ever would keep these hidden
I throw them out to join the circulatory swirl
Let you hear what I hear
For I have heard your voices also
With every joy every sorrow every soaring song
Echoing in my dreams and we are never alone
The rain on the grass the wind in the leaves
We raise our heads to the sky for a glimpse of the sun
The beat the ebb the flow the beat the ebb the flow
On and on and on in us all
I take these things
Rays of forgotten laughter entangled in skyward branches
Glints of ancient tears enrobed in half-trodden rocks
Shines of discarded prayers ensnared in hidden eyries
I place them in the chambers of my charred heart
Blackened from use as a philosopher’s stone
(You see or perhaps you never know that)
I am the maker of fireflies
I travel unnoticed on crowded streets and abandoned alleyways
Dispensing these to land in worried eyes on wearied shoulders
(This being everyone I pass)
So when you suddenly stop in wonder at a beloved smile
Or lift yourself with a stranger’s aid
Know that I walked by
(in every age someone does this
As fireflies are essential)
Open the door in the hours before dawn.
The trills drift into the kitchen like smoke.
They are smoke, each bird aflame. We do not see this.
Step outside to check the sky.
The shadows wash across the moon like smoke.
They are smoke, each cloud a signal. We do not see this.
Go about the morning business.
Begin to cough but cast this on other causes.
All is enkindled. The world is burning.
There are no distant fires.
I do not disdain your grocery store oolong
Served in a chipped thrift store cup.
The love with which it is offered
Transforms this into the rarest of teas,
Steeped with considerate care, warmed by attentive kindness,
sweetened with local honey and shared stories.
Never disparage such a gift, nor apologize to serve it.
I will sit at your old farmhouse table and savor every sip,
Grateful indeed for this time and place
And the opportunity to rest for a bit and breathe the fresh air,
Thankful always for your friendship.
Dazedly we emerged from our houses,
Walking with shaky steps to gaze at the unfamiliar sun.
Did you survive the rain? We asked each other,
And most nodded, though we surreptitiously found ourselves
Checking first our own limbs and then those of our neighbors.
When we looked hesitantly into others’ eyes,
We found many awash with tears and knew
That the rain still poured in their thoughts and thus filled them to overflowing.
We surrounded these in sorrow, wanting to hold them close
But did not touch them, lest the water find its way to us.
Meanwhile in a nearby village that was also across the world,
The inhabitants were likewise appearing from their refuges,
Venturing with heavy gait outside to view the strange clouds.
Did you survive the fires? They asked each other,
And most nodded, though they too were glancing secretly
At their own bodies first then doing the same for their neighbors.
When they briefly peered into others’ faces,
They discovered many scorched with rage and knew
That the blaze still burned in their hearts and thus consumed them without remorse.
They gathered round these in fear, really wanting to flee
But instead hugging them tightly to smother their flames, thus preventing them from spreading.
Rain. Fire. When you step beyond your door, consider them when you meet another.
I will wear your flannel shirts on these mornings
When steam fog rises from the pond
And birdsong weaves through the silent trees.
(Do trees have voices?
I still hear yours, raised in murmured song
As you prepared for the work ahead.
You thought I slept but I was always listening.)
I will prepare hot strong coffee, one cup only,
and drink it black from your favorite cup.
(I always preferred tea but never mentioned,
Wanting to join you in this ritual to begin the day.
Would you have minded? I never thought to ask.)
I will try on your pretty pink shoes
And laugh as I always did when you wore them.
(I loved the way they contrasted with the toughness of the shirts.
You were the only girl I knew who chose such attire.
Did I ever tell you? Now I wish I had done so every morning before you left for work.)
Will, I miss you. I always miss you.
I say this now, and all the things I never said and the questions I never asked
I repeat with every breath.