irene toh

This must be the second time

For a while we danced the enigma
rustling whispery air.
Small creatures breathed
modest movements.
Paw prints on earth.
Gray fur scuttled.

The soul’s wreath
in the music room.
The feeling that made
her sigh. The dissipating gloom
in a house made bright
reflects owl’s eyes.

The red-brown fox watching
outside. Small ears alert.
Some kind of animal hubris
burned like metal.
This must be the second time,
hawk having flown.

Irene Toh lives on a tropical island. She writes about fall and plums, spring and lilacs, summer and fishes, winter and bears.

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