Passing Reflection
By Heather Jean Ariizumi

I love the summertime
because I can open the window,
sit on the sill,
and invite the evening Air in.
I lean aside and ask the
Rain and Lilac to sit at
my table and talk awhile.
We'll sigh and linger on
the lights of the city below -
how we wish we could
fling them up to the
cloudy veil that wraps
the stars.
But then the silky, dark,
intricate patterns of silence
make me want to lift
the tangled memories and
damp woods to my breast.

I brush away a golden
fire from my loved one's cheek.

Perhaps Time will come as
well, enter the archway and
mingle or flow,
its silver tears
like the weeping rain
that ladens the pregnant leaves
and drips into the deep and thoughtful
nights.
If I ask a question then,
I know the liquid imprints would
only understand the journey
and the question, not the
answer itself.
But then time never came, but
flowed in the veins,
the rain, the ladened
lilacs, and up to the hidden
lights, only to stream
from the light falling
from the next window.

After they left the
smell would linger.