Late December night
unseasonal, almost balmy
I step into the small Japanese Garden
in the center of three buildings:
this is the locus, the point which
pins brick to its substance
anchoring this place to the world...
I stand here & breathe night air,
allow darkness to embrace me
secret lover enfolding me
bringing me to a point of stillness
where even held breath could
shatter silence, cause the very stars
to blink out, one-by-one
leaving darkness so total
it must be my own...
In this numinous state
imagination's so vivid, so complete
I can see a stream running
beneath the small wooden bridge
defining this gentle, reflective space.
For a moment, I can forget reality’s hard truth:
Bridge covers a storm drain,
its charm accidental, by-product of function
- dispersing rain water, rushing river,
Into pipes - keeping property safe & dry,
Garden pristine in starlight;
caught in my lover's spell,
I allow practicality
to disperse, water down pipes.
Surrendering to silent darkness,
I hear only the mutable sussuration
of water rushing over smooth stones.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.