Set Fire to the Reserves of Stillness

Excitement is not joy;

the flare of the bright red leaves

signals their imminent falling.

Sit at the pier’s end.

The still pond is not flare;

the lake is too big, too easily disturbed

even by the rain falling with the sound of a thousand bells;

the layers of obscuring cloud above are foreign to one another:

mismatch shades, at enmity, they glide away in opposite directions.

Into the Clarities