Waves strike against cement of solemn water.
One solitary seagull pierces through the clouds,
Slices sky from the sea without bound,
Watching it rise and rise out of sight
Like a balloon from a careless child’s hand.
Will the sky, too, pop,
If it climbs too high?
Sunlight crawls on snowflakes so purely warm.
One solitary nightingale sings among thorns of ice
And shatters the clear crystal with voice alone,
Its image flickering in ice shards,
As they dive into deep snow
Like dandelion seeds taking root.
Would the ice, too, grow,
Into a snow-draped forest?
Shadows retreat from the burning candle in haste.
One solitary raven trips over a bottle of ink,
Dips its wings in a pool of spreading black,
And drags the feathers across the parchment,
Composing poetry with such grace, an instinct –
How like a coffee mug rushes towards the ground.
Would the ink, too, drip so fiercely
That it wounds the floor?