A trembling bough –
who will start the candle flame
so we can reach the top?
AT HALF PAST FOUR, sitting in the yard, waiting for the bells. The air is heavy, our shirts are damp with overheat. One of us hums a quiet hymn, but no one knows the words, and the song goes drifting far away. The clouds are looking merry to hear it. One is even dancing apace! We choose a blade of grass, the yellowest, and make a little whistle. We imagine that it is the wind. If we divide the grass, then divide it again, it becomes so slender we can barely see it, and the whistle grows faint as the crack of dawn. It sounds like the names of the people whose faces we all forgot. We watch as the fluff of a dandelion floats overhead.
The bells are chiming
from a mouthless face –
how much they say!
…
A scalloping shell,
vacant as the winter night
and ringing with sound.
…
Steeple top
showered in snowfall –
the chime of bells!
…
Roundness of the cherry bowl
sitting in the sun –
how much time has passed!