I feel no desire to leave with slammed doors or sharp words.
No tears, no heartache this time.
I leave the way a tide recedes,
having touched a beautiful seashell.
I bow to what I received,
to the heat, the music, the experience.
I bow to a standing ovation for the part I played; wearing a mask which made my eyes look pure and honest.
I bow to the version of me
who stayed longer than she should have; holding a magical snowflake that wouldn’t melt.
I bow out
not smaller,
but clearer.
The clarity that comes when the fire dies down; when nothing fragile is left.
And there are only faint traces of heavy smoke, which leaves a residue hard to fully erase.
The smoke that gets in your lungs, and transforms you like submerging in water for a second too long.
I chose to stay devoted to the sun, the center of my universe.
And a snowflake needs a turbulent wind devoted to keeping it afloat; devoted to carrying the snowflake up high into the heavens to touch the top of Solomon’s temple.
There are things you fight for, and there are things you simply allow the wind to carry away.
I simply bow, for the quiet and truth found in Fourteen black paintings.
Yet, in secret I keep looking out the window, for signs of snow.
Jan 12
Jan 12, 2026 at 11:13 PM UTC
Shall we make some music.
Find a rhythm that suits us both.
You take lead on your drums, and I will follow your beat on my tambourine.
A distinguished and strong thump thump thump.
And a piercing and bright ting ting ting.
Or would you play me?
Shake me;
strum me;
tap me as you like.
I will vibrate and I will hum.
Oh Drummer Boy.
Let’s make some music.
Let’s make a beat. Layer our percussion.
When we play together; will we get up and dance?
Or will we cover our ears?
Drummer boy.
Shant we play a fourth of the four quartets.
Silence will be the sound that haunts us.
Ting.
Jan 8
Jan 8, 2026 at 10:39 AM UTC