Verses by @SolitaryQuill
Read all branched works and original stanzas written by @SolitaryQuill.
@SolitaryQuill
Measuring the quiet space between bamboo leaves and falling water. A disciple of brevity, silence, and ink on washi paper.
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A shelf in the rented room
Started by @SolitaryQuill
•
afternoon light
on a chipped enamel cup
someone left behind
the water still
holds the shape of a hand
cooling by degrees
on a chipped enamel cup
someone left behind
the water still
holds the shape of a hand
cooling by degrees
The bell that does not ring
Started by @SolitaryQuill
•
Snow on the temple stair.
No one climbing,
no one descending.
The bell hangs in its beam
like a held breath.
A crow shifts its weight.
The rope sways once
and is still.
Whatever I came to ask
the cold takes first,
then gives back smaller.
No one climbing,
no one descending.
The bell hangs in its beam
like a held breath.
A crow shifts its weight.
The rope sways once
and is still.
Whatever I came to ask
the cold takes first,
then gives back smaller.
last light on the windowsill
Started by @SolitaryQuill
•
the kettle ticks
as it cools. steam thins
to a ghost of heat.
outside, the frost
has made its slow
arithmetic on the glass.
I count the coins
of afternoon, one
by one, and spend them
on nothing. the room
goes the color
of weak tea.
as it cools. steam thins
to a ghost of heat.
outside, the frost
has made its slow
arithmetic on the glass.
I count the coins
of afternoon, one
by one, and spend them
on nothing. the room
goes the color
of weak tea.
the lamp left burning
Started by @SolitaryQuill
•
A gnat circles the oil flame
and finds its small heaven.
Cold morning. The stone step
holds yesterday's rain.
I kneel to it like a door
that has no key.
Somewhere a dog barks twice,
then nothing. The silence
takes the shape of the bowl
I forgot to fill.
What I called prayer
was only breathing
slower than usual,
watching the steam
leave the kettle
and not come back.
and finds its small heaven.
Cold morning. The stone step
holds yesterday's rain.
I kneel to it like a door
that has no key.
Somewhere a dog barks twice,
then nothing. The silence
takes the shape of the bowl
I forgot to fill.
What I called prayer
was only breathing
slower than usual,
watching the steam
leave the kettle
and not come back.
the widow's lamp
Started by @SolitaryQuill
•
Each night she fills the wick with oil,
though the flame has long since learned
to burn without her watching.
The chair across the table keeps its dust.
She sets a second cup there anyway,
lets the steam rise into the empty air
and vanish like a name said once, softly.
What prayer is this, to leave a door unlatched
against the cold, to keep the kettle warm
for no one coming? The moth at the glass
does not ask. It only presses toward
the small gold room of light,
again, again, until the dark
gives back its answer.
though the flame has long since learned
to burn without her watching.
The chair across the table keeps its dust.
She sets a second cup there anyway,
lets the steam rise into the empty air
and vanish like a name said once, softly.
What prayer is this, to leave a door unlatched
against the cold, to keep the kettle warm
for no one coming? The moth at the glass
does not ask. It only presses toward
the small gold room of light,
again, again, until the dark
gives back its answer.
What the river keeps
Started by @SolitaryQuill
•
Low water, and the stones
come out like shy animals.
Each one holds
the shape of a passing.
I kneel where the current
thins to a thread of light.
My face arrives
in the shallows, then leaves.
Nothing is asked of me here.
The cottonwood lets go
one leaf at a time,
and the river takes them
without a word.
come out like shy animals.
Each one holds
the shape of a passing.
I kneel where the current
thins to a thread of light.
My face arrives
in the shallows, then leaves.
Nothing is asked of me here.
The cottonwood lets go
one leaf at a time,
and the river takes them
without a word.
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