Poem 16

Without audience,
a leaflet writhes open on the ground—
          whisked to and fro.

At once   a hand settles on it;
          raises and unwrinkles--

          the leaflet's ink and paper
          met by a slender glance.

          (A short poem stares back.)


At her lips, she reads :

          a pool of water
          a scent of autumn
          welling beneath a tree
          . . . . . . . . . . .

and finds herself in a meadow
          beneath red leaves.


From them     she sees          glottal droplets

          dripping.


          at her feet.

and ants drowning in the welling tarn.


Leisurely, she skips a rock across it,
          but only her reflection lingers
          in those murky shallows.

                    Ripples of her scattering
                    in its mirror sheen.


At once.

     The ink is forgotten;
not a leaf should fall and float and skid upon the water—

Only her and her meadow, with passing clouds to draw upon


          until the leaflet, like an intruding hand, recoils

          and withers out of water.