for & after Sei Shōnagon
In winter, late morning, when the sky is oyster gray on white, and smoke-blue clouds shift behind the lake in shadow, the lanterns sigh and click. Shreds of orange burst up a branch.
…………………………….Now too, it is perfect when snow is falling against anticipation lit with the scent of ice. Footsteps sink into one’s own prints, sorrow milled with pleasure, a familiar path replaced by weather. To perceive apparent delights feels both inadequate and wise: a requisite gift of keening the matter. In summer, late afternoon on water.