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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