Bird
The moon dictates the palette.Bare branches write down the theme.Time thins to a single breath.Only a red note,a small refusal,betrays the world’s lingering warmth. –Jujube
Keep readingAfternoon Tea
the ceramic holds its breathlet the flowers define the airsweetened conversationslinger in the shadowsasking the empty chairswho decideswhat moment lasts –Jujube
Keep readingEarly Winter Woods
The early winter woods are a letterTorn open by the windScript scatters on the groundShifting, recombiningSunlight hesitates among the branchesWeaving threads of grayTrying to string together a plotOnly to readTwo silent ellipses — Jujube
Keep readingLight on Water
In the hush of shadows,the pond tries to rememberwho it was mirroring. Like the white and red blooms,we live for a moment of illumination—then returnto where light cannot follow. — Jujube
Keep readingWithout Ceremony
You move through a whisper,loosening from its own name. Birds rise. Grass bends.The sun hesitates. We are not what we once were—the field knows this.It gives you back to the wind,without ceremony. — Jujube
Keep readingThe Russian Song
In distant lands, on hill and plain,thus do I dream, when nights are long, —and memory gives back againthe whisper of that long-lost song. — V. Nabokov
Keep readingStill Life
You can almost hear it —autumn’s last gaspa pomegranate split opengrapes hang low drowsya pear half-turned to goldheld by the brushsilently resists decay — jujube
Keep readingRainy Day
The window holds the breath of rain.I sink into the blueness of sleep.Dream and daylight braid, as the shadows of the leavessway.
Keep readingNocturnal Travels
I have no need, for my nocturnal travels, of ships, I have no need of trains. The moon’s above the checkerboard-like garden. The window’s open. I am set.– V. Nabokov
Keep readingNight Is Young
Wine hums, lanterns flicker.Moon sneers, time falls into dust.Who stitches sorrow in the dimming light,While night is still young.
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