Unlatch these early hours, invite the windAnd the soul journeying homeward,
To revisit what’s left and what has been.
Nina Tai ling
In the clear stillness of dawn
I lift a window and inhale
what rises from the greenwood, cool and damp.
Beyond mushrooms and moss-covered stones,
the wet silk hung on reed and briar,
there is a deep sense of longing
that did not perish in the wildfire.
Clothed in leather and Levi jeans,
you drift along that distant light
leaving the ruins of a charred plane
tangled in sedge grass, hidden from sight.
And so I wait, to hear footsteps break
the silence of marsh and morning air.
Even lark sparrows mute their song
and wind refuses to muss my hair
saving that task for a lover’s hand.
I shiver near the casement’s frame,
too much dust resembles frost; and yet frost
could never blur your presence or name.