The palm at the end of the mind, beyond the last thought, rises in the bronze distance. A gold feathered bird sings in the palm, without human meaning, without human feeling, a foreign song. You know then that it is not the reason that makes us happy or unhappy.
The bird sings. Its feathers shine. The palm stands on the edge of space. The wind moves slowly in the branches. The bird's fire-fangled feathers dangle down.

Thursday, September 29, 2022

A Mirror

The wind goes off 

by itself somewhere 

to die.

 

I say 

call me when you get there.

 

Tonight, my thoughts 

blow back and forth.

 

Glasses clink.

Voices 

read aloud 

 

from libraries of wildflowers.

 

Their hues have become

even more vibrant but

 

I have become worse 

in your absence,

 

toting this blank sob 

like a briefcase.

 

Arriving at the front desk 

with my suspicions

 

that hope 

is not a living thing

 

only a mirror 

we holding up to hopelessness.

 

--hua xi

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