In the Clouds, Volcano

Earth-touching clouds hush the forest.

A terrarium of  stillness

shrouds the bird realm.

Speaking as if  from another source,

‘Apapane the ventriloquist

knits its calls, releasing

like a ball of string

notes that flutter to the floor as leaves,

typing trills that glitter the branches.

The cloud dome diverts the wind

the way a boulder divides a river,

rerouting the occasional car

from turning down the gravel road.

There are many ways to pass through.

There are many ways to exit.

Solitude expands the sense of  time,

on this side of  the hourglass,

the sand in short supply.

I frittered it away in such

a hurry, the arguments, the hostility,

grabbing at what

I thought would make me happy,

so many missed opportunities

to make, in the end, amends.

I take heed from the old sages.

I do not miss

the fickleness of  the fleeting world.

With my books and papers,

I scratch insects out of stone,

patch and reclaim torn threads.

The stitches are far from perfect.

Tobacco-drunk and countless tea cups,

I retreat, content beside the twig-fed fire.

All that I need is to want

nothing more. Rising into clouds,

the wisps of  smoke impersonal as my signature.