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The Longing of Halves
Beneath a moonlit grass patch, a rose awaits
bloom in silence:
an image about to be born
an eyelid about to open.
Dewdrops, damp, settle on a blade like
a tear:
waiting to be unearthed,
to evaporate into the sky-stare,
and rejoin as rain flurries--
the water-need that
entombs us,
drowns noise in absence-liquid.
Crystal-clear nightriver
washes echoes elusive;
a sound erodes into
slippery halves
that, floating away,
lean in each other's direction.
The longing of gods.
The reason we love.
