Cones
The blue mist of after-rain
fills all the trees;
the sunlight gilds the tops
of the poplar spires, far off,
behind the houses.
| Here a branch sways | |
| and there | |
| a sparrow twitters. | |
The curtain’s hem, rose-embroidered,
flutters, and half reveals
a burnt-red chimney pot.
The quiet in the room
bears patiently
a footfall on the street.