A warm Taiwan sun,
temples half lit, half shadow.
Bolted and chained,
all the way to Kinmen.

Each line of happiness,
an even edge.
Borrowed from another poet,
telling us – the whole dream.

Summer moves in,
rain soaks todays firewood.
Layers and layers of banyan,
walking into a thin twilight.

And the breathing sounds
of the sea and mountains.
Messages left by ancestral
spirits, nearer to flight.

Conversations grinding away,
a fragile but free soul.
A destined path, like fresh
and new bamboo shoots.

Plum rain outside.
In a dream, I find a way –
on this island.
My mind,
such a soft surface.
Swaying, to a
bone flute future.
The sounds
of a new beginning.

Sometimes a hard sun
and a forest skull.
A terse note,
repeated down the line.

Then a hummingbird hawk,
lilt in her voice.
Flying in place
and baiting life.

Inside of me,
a monologue –
from Keelung to Kenting
“why and why not”

Each slow swing,
a trumpet glinting.
Waiting for me,
to give it life.

Blue magpies return,
on cancelled flights.
Churches-turned-temples,
ice-cream vans play tunes
from the old days.
A fragrance of histories mingling.

Fog-filled harbours,
and the taste of atemoya.
Late spring rain,
and people seem more honest.
On this island, dreams are mild stones – the way I like it.

When the day settles,
I am in this world.
Not just on the
falling blossoms,
or the bitter
sadness of loss.
But always….
sooner or later.
In the hard frost streets
and mountains in shadow.

In search of Buddhism,
in Taiwan.
I met Tsai Chih-Chan,
a distant soul –
alive as you and me.

Letting the grass touch
my silent lips – and her words
caress my face.
I am in the world,
a deep harbour –
full then dry again.
Everything alive,
throughout creation.

It steps quietly into
the towns and cities,
and takes away
the colour in life.

A coffin line and
beast of loneliness –
breaking dawn
and setting sun.

No root or basis,
I leave birth-and-death.
Step by step, later by layer –
a daily rehearsal, then nothing.

qrf

The wind has its colour,
the sea has its colour –
stepping quietly around
city streets.

Seeing these
migration days –
a costume of hope made
with people’s passion.

Plum blossom everywhere,
homesick souls coming home.
Weaved together – waiting
for the next storm.

A fresh scent, on this island –
deeper and deeper
into the spirit.
One blade of grass,
one dragon fly –
and the sun stretched
beyond Yushan.

From house-to-house,
and the bee’s abdomen –
a feeling of one’s own face.
This is probably……enough.