Kanagawa

Their lines stretch finite.

On The Scene Without This Café

The rails run.

Whate’er shall I write next?

Less the windswept streetside ‘n its trials.

Your essence, earnestly put forth unto impermanence to weather storms of whetherwhims.

No rhymes for reading; hearing!

Reincarnate, they live as long as us.

Ink-blue; windswept; late-night.

Wait for words…

Ripples subside.

Eddied pools of meaning.

In nature’s nightless, new-born form I met the mossy fern.

Unobtainable.

I sketch the grass.

Paddling swan in feathers.