How often in her presence, we kneel slowly, transfixed by the changing expressions on her countenance, the capricious spoon of nature, constantly stirring a glowing amber pot of words and moods, her magnificent inconstancy evoking in turn, awe, fear and silent reverence?
No! No! As for man,
How his heart is none can tell,
But the plum’s sweet flower
In my birthplace, as of yore,
Still emits the same perfume
(by Ki no Tsurayuki in Clay MacCauley’s translation of the anthology Hyakunin Isshu -35)
And yet, contrary to the world spinning around it, why do we place upon our frail, beating hearts, the colossal burden of steadfastness, a prospect that does not suffer easily the slightest tremble in its voice or flicker in its gaze?
a new heart beat
wrapped in yesterday’s moonlight