Stamp and jump.
Jump and stamp.
Mist on my glasses.
Why is it still raining?
Of me, a graying stranger.
Deep as a well at night.
But what is happening
to the wind, I ask.
Not a soul will speak.
Not a single person will scream.
So how will I address the fog?
Like so many spirits,
I am always surprised by spring.
Around the tombs,
what are the butterflies
trying to trace?