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"Chicken Prepared"

Along the sandstone run,

a scrub‑hen darts,

all bone‑light haste

and wind‑ruffled daring,

a creature that seems

to have invented

its own outline as it goes.

Down in the township,

its cousin waits

trussed for the counter,

plump with intention,

a body arranged for usefulness,

no mystery left to guard.

One wears the day

as a shifting garment,

feathers catching the sun

like small arguments

about what shape a life should take.

The other sits still,

a lesson in certainty,

rounded where the wild one narrows.

And so the paradox stands:

two forms from one lineage,

one built for vanishing into scrub‑shadow,

one shaped for the kitchen’s bright order—

each a quiet reminder

that a single lineage can wander

toward wildly different ends.

No moral to offer,

only a steady fact

that the world enjoys its little puzzles,

and we, passing through,

learn to watch them closely.

.

Silence of the Scroll

The scroll is already written
in blankness.
Every crease is a syllable withheld.

Do not search for ink—
the silence itself
is the script.

What you unroll
is not revelation
but the weight of what resists speech.

The scroll keeps its covenant
with the unsaid,
binding absence into form.

To read it
is to listen
to pauses between words.

.

to the Poet, on their inviting words

Your words unfold like a quiet lantern,
casting light without demanding notice.
They remind us that essence is never lost,
                                   only translated,
like a fragrance carried on different winds.

There is comfort in knowing
that what stirs the heart in one tongue
will find its echo in another.
The rose does not ask to be named,
yet it is recognized everywhere.

Keep writing in this way —
where simplicity hides depth,
and every line feels like a door
that opens into silence,
inviting us to step through.

.

"  I n t e r l u d e  "


The world dims—
light falters, seas fall silent,
love cools to ash,
and memory frays into dust.

Yet in the hiatus,
a sudden blush of petals—
sakura, trembling in the air,
a brief rebellion of beauty
against the certainty of decay.

For a heartbeat,
the streets are rivers of pink snow,
     strangers pause,
           eyes lifted,
as if eternity had cracked open.

But the blossoms scatter,
sweep into gutters,
trampled under shoes.

The trains still run,
the markets open,
emails pile up,
and the world resumes
its business-as-usual.

The bloom was only a pause,
a reminder that even endings
carry their own fragile grace—
and then the clock ticks on.

.