Next Morning Letter
Savoring each summer moment
lush and brief
I close my
eyes to see
your white robe, falling open
as you call for your scroll
and ink stone, a brush
As your brush passes over the paper
my body shivers
How closely now you watch
at the open lattice
as your
servant hurries away
the next morning letter
tethered to
a spray of clematis
whose blossoms will
not open
until they reach me
In the washbasin
your face is
the bridge that
spans
the floating world of dreams
Now you are yawning
Now you are reciting
sutras
bowing to the wind
When the letter arrives
all the leaves of the maple
outside my window
are
stirred
I read your words
just once, then once again
bringing my fingers
to my
lips, my hair
tucked back behind one ear
On the dawn's trellis
the scent of clematis
Now
smell your fingers
The petals of my body
gather in your empty arms
How shall I respond?
The cry of the stag
is so
loud
the echo answers
from the empty mountains
as if it were a doe
I tell
you only what you know
Clematis—the scent
of your teaching surrounds me
My
empty arms fill
Come night, the fragrant petals
fall in a heap at my feet
.
by Margaret Gibson
from Blackbird
Spring 2002, Vol. 1 No. 1