In the dimly lit kitchen, I whistle
while I boil the water for the tea I might steep.
The steam rises from the kettle and warms my face
as I stare at the clock tick, tick, ticking away.
Outside, I hear the rain dripping
and rolling off the fresh spring leaves.
I stare after her as she leaves.
In the silence she left, I hear the wind whistle
and the faucet that won’t stop dripping.
Beyond the trees, I see the snowy steep
melting as the winter washes away
from the towering mountain’s face.
Suddenly, warm tears roll down my face;
I’d forgotten the ache that blooms when she leaves.
No matter how many times she’s whisked away,
I still weep at the sound of the train’s whistle.
The distance between us is not nearly steep
enough to warrant my tears dripping.
At dawn, the blurry sky is dripping
with a golden mist that caresses my face,
and within the fog, I feel my mind steep.
I lose myself in the swirling tea leaves and
– in a dance honey sweet like a warbler’s whistle –
I feel myself melting away.
My heart’s tattoo, pounding away:
a rhythmic reminder of my blood dripping
through my veins. It’s a referee’s whistle
demanding shame to flush my face.
I suppose I’m ashamed when she takes her leaves
and it’s only within sorrow I steep.
It’s the jolt of her absence that feels so steep
for she’d never so starkly gone away.
With the empty echoes she so oft leaves,
the air is heavy with the quiet dripping
like raindrops on my face.
I can hardly recall the timbre of her whistle.
The kettle begins to whistle as I overlook the steep
and the scenery I used to face seems to drift away
until all I see is my pen dripping ink on a sheaf of loose leaves.
while I boil the water for the tea I might steep.
The steam rises from the kettle and warms my face
as I stare at the clock tick, tick, ticking away.
Outside, I hear the rain dripping
and rolling off the fresh spring leaves.
I stare after her as she leaves.
In the silence she left, I hear the wind whistle
and the faucet that won’t stop dripping.
Beyond the trees, I see the snowy steep
melting as the winter washes away
from the towering mountain’s face.
Suddenly, warm tears roll down my face;
I’d forgotten the ache that blooms when she leaves.
No matter how many times she’s whisked away,
I still weep at the sound of the train’s whistle.
The distance between us is not nearly steep
enough to warrant my tears dripping.
At dawn, the blurry sky is dripping
with a golden mist that caresses my face,
and within the fog, I feel my mind steep.
I lose myself in the swirling tea leaves and
– in a dance honey sweet like a warbler’s whistle –
I feel myself melting away.
My heart’s tattoo, pounding away:
a rhythmic reminder of my blood dripping
through my veins. It’s a referee’s whistle
demanding shame to flush my face.
I suppose I’m ashamed when she takes her leaves
and it’s only within sorrow I steep.
It’s the jolt of her absence that feels so steep
for she’d never so starkly gone away.
With the empty echoes she so oft leaves,
the air is heavy with the quiet dripping
like raindrops on my face.
I can hardly recall the timbre of her whistle.
The kettle begins to whistle as I overlook the steep
and the scenery I used to face seems to drift away
until all I see is my pen dripping ink on a sheaf of loose leaves.