After eating the boxed lunch provided at the worksite,
and sitting beneath the shaded screen to rest,
news of those I had completely forgotten
suddenly seeps into the edge of my heart.
The summer heat I watch while leaning against the window
piles up, layer by layer, like dust,
and the texture of relationships once finely woven
has, before I know it, scattered in the wind,
becoming as light as fallen leaves.
And yet, the weight of the day
feels a little lighter
because of the unchanging light of midday.
I am doing well.
I wake at dawn, read poetry, and eat my meals.
Since my workplace is close to home,
I am fortunate to have
a little leisure in the morning.
Each day seems much the same,
but every day is a little different.
The things I encounter,
and the texture of my heart, are not the same.
When I return in the evening, eat,
and slowly sink into sleep,
that time becomes
the quietest moment of the day.
Then,
there is a sound
as if coming from somewhere.
Questions of well-being I could not ask,
names I had forgotten,
feelings I could not put into words
pass softly by my ears.
Perhaps that is why
my words grow long
before the question,
“How have you been?”
Thank you for your unexpected message.
How have you been these days?
If you are near the edge of a green forest,
the sounds of grass insects must be drifting toward your window,
long cries and short cries overlapping
as they make the season.
If time allows,
I would like to stop by a corner
of a bookstore or library,
place a book of poems in my bag,
and set off somewhere on a whim,
even if only for a single day’s journey.
Eyes closed, morning—
Autumn heard through the ears
suddenly feels good.