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.