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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

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