Self-Portrait as Shakuhachi

How easy to let air 

slide through oneself.

Or, being air, 

complete those brief 

tasks, a song of many 

whispers weaving through 

tall grass, sculpting regrets 

from that caressed cheek, 

beyond dance and speech, 

where words go for comfort

and nothing contains us.

Not joy, not contrition. 

Neither hope nor peace. 

Not even love.How easy to let air 

slide through oneself.

Or, being air, 

complete those brief 

tasks, a song of many 

whispers weaving through 

tall grass, sculpting regrets 

from that caressed cheek, 

beyond dance and speech, 

where words go for comfort

and nothing contains us.

Not joy, not contrition. 

Neither hope nor peace. 

Not even love.