Stepping Stones Magazine

The wind reveals itself in eddies,
bending fields of parachute balls to the east,
that burst apart and float through the air
like a million milky helicopters.

I write and revise in quiet interludes,
follow trails that lead to larger fields
with granite rocks that I can lean against
to think of what she is to me.

We’re circles within circles, sky
and earth in one blue blur, laughing
over the smallest things: Christmas lights
in August, who will eat the last
tangerine in our green bowl, the dew
that seeps against our sandals.

At that, I think I’ll throw in the towel –
I have no way to properly describe her.
What I’ll do is draft one random thought:

I’d write ten thousand poor lines of poetry
before I captured her kokoro,
and by this rock, in this empty field,
with parachute balls floating all around,
I’ll sit awhile longer, to begin the task
of writing.

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