Early morning, I could not sleep.
A single moonbeam shot
through my window.
I listened to a podcast from the BBC,
about a 94 year old woman
living alone on Vancouver Island.

It was partly a choice, partly a
conspiracy of events that
brought no friends to her.

Now she is frail, with the seals and
wind flags as her only friends.

She talked about the pangs of the past,
the colours of the coast and thoughts of nothing.
And watching the belted kingfishers
solitary flights.

As I listened, I thought about my own loneliness.
Here, living in China.
And why there is no one here
to remember with me.

There was a sadness in her voice,
not caused by being lonely.
But by a sadness that is ordinary.
The smiles, the anger, the misunderstandings,
the feel and emotion of a single event.

And a sense of injustice and punishment
from the sky.

At the end I came to the conclusion
that my life has flickered indignantly.

And yet, the moments of languished loneliness
have often turned into a terrifying tenderness.
A human heart of hidden treasures, that
seeks a life and a world to come.