Measuring Silence

In autumn, silence must’ve been

scattered – top of the maple, where the moon hangs

small and yellow. Gibbous

sounds, clinging onto summer

breeze like no other.

Kneeling by the river, I count

clouds climbing somber tides

bright with heavy light. I

watch wounded leaves fall

down to the ground: I measure. As long

as the whitecaps hold, I will tighten up the wind.

What next?

I make my way up to bed, and

peer through the crack of my closed door.

Shadows flicker, light comes and goes.

Stay, I whisper. Do not hurry past me

or my eyes will close.

By Graciela Zhang