Pink ...

We lock evening clouds outside the low door
and watch a gray gull angle
over the wild strawberry field and head straight north
We observe the quiet breeze
unable to move a pink hibiscus... maybe
it’s not a breeze: ‘If the hibiscus doesn’t move
how can you tell there is a quiet breeze?’
‘Sit tight. You be the hibiscus, I’ll be the breeze’
She shakes her head coyly like pink twilight
listening to the promise of quiet brushing
across her fair arms and shoulders, her
collar and hair. Entering the dark
I see a firefly coming in from outside
stealthily, intentionally, it flits over her ankles.

Yang Mu

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