The bamboo shouts in the windows
but does not move.
After days of rain the sky lifts.
Still it is silent
after the guest has left,
there is no more conversation about books.
People linger in the mind
but not in the house.
The wind does not blow indoors.
There is only the present moment.
The past flickers like a shadow thrown by firelight
unless fixed by pen and press.
We all know what the future holds.
Why do we go to work
or buy groceries?
Why not sit at home and wait for the end?
“Until then
I rejoice,” the poet said.
