The Ash Reverses Its Burn

The porcelain teacup shatters on the tatami mats,

but the tea is still warm inside the kettle,

and tomorrow, your hand will reach for the ceramic handle

with a scar you haven’t yet received.

The scent of sandalwood incense fills the empty room.

It rises from the white ash that has already gone cold,

long before the match is struck,

long before the wood remembers the forest.

Outside, the spring wind blows,

and a pink petal sticks to your damp cheek.

You wipe it away, fifty years from now,

as an old man looking into a rusted mirror,

while a child—who is also you—

runs through the torii gate, chasing a kite that hasn’t been made.

The thunder strikes after the sky has cleared.

The ripples on the pond converge into a stone,

which leaps backward into the palm of a boy.

We are leaving before we arrive.

The sliding paper doors are closed,

yet I can already hear your boots on the gravel path outside,

walking away from a house

you will build next winter.

The clock on the wall does not tick;

it exhales.