2025-04-06 ☼ translations
Grey cloud grasping light,
unrolling the softness of another world
towards the wobbling plane wing; its folds ripple,
someone has scattered seeds in each furrow.
Who’s thinking, underneath the clouds,
how hard it is to restore the life of a flower,
when rain never coincides with favourable winds.
But we have a shred of light.
Today, passing through a mid-air gate
as if remembering.
From “Introspection on a Cloud”. Read all three poems in the Spittoon anthology Ten Thousand Miles of Clouds and Moons.