While sun is still low
Stately stones become pupils
Eclipsing the sage

Pausing
To hear the shape of
The wind

 

 

 

Silvery song
of the thrush, forest flowers
as white as the moon

Slow dream of stars
Trees fringing the sky
Heaven’s riverbank

 

counter-clockwise
made of silk and sky, halo
after halo

 

 

There is still time
to touch some radiance
and taste the stars

 

Hundreds of thousands
already past spring green
bowing to gold