Friday, April 13, 2012

After the rain

My parka cuts the wind’s direction
and my thought, the future
hangs like a fisherman’s line
waits through the rain.

What if the mountain 
is full of temples?
Prayers may wake the tigers
and prowl the forest.

Time is sheltered
inside our fears.
What is williwaws?
I asked once. You laughed.

The trout swims away like my dreams.
The rains stops.
I decide not to walk
and pray.

You call, singing poetry, 
like returning hummingbirds.
Tiger and temples are one
like a prayer, you and me.

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