Reincarnate, they live as long as us.
Ink-blue; windswept; late-night.
Wait for words…
Eddied pools of meaning.
In nature’s nightless, new-born form I met the mossy fern.
I sketch the grass.
Paddling swan in feathers.
The time that passed.
I write these words to end a tanka.
The cranes cry to the cov’ring cloud.
Do you hear?
Notebook completed; page un-blanked; th’caress of wind-soothed heat.