On a wind-swept August morning like this
I wake up full of the deepest gratitude.
I tell myself no other dawn will be thus:
The same azure skies, this slant of the sun.
My days have gone, one after the other,
Following an invisible piper;
But I still want to trace my signature
On the canvas of the beautiful world;
What is it with growing old and gray men?
This delayed appreciation of life?
Despite all the sorrows and imperfections
This wish to see the world a while longer?
I pick up a fallen Shiuli flower
From the green grass outside my window;
I hold it on the palm of my hand.
But I cannot close my fist around it
Without crushing the white and orange bloom…
The scent stays long after I’ve dropped it back;
Beauty is fleeting.
It flits about in the bushes
Like a lark, twittering.
She cannot sing in captivity.
Life is a dew drop on the grass.
It shines for a while.
So beautiful… and so brief;