Night Reed

Statues of folkloric figures
make a spectacle of her
dying garden. She lives
in her grandmother’s
old house and hasn’t changed
a single thing about it.
Her upper windows
open outward and she takes
barefoot steps out onto
the roof tiles to play clarinet
at the moon with notes mostly
born from the lower register.
Her sad songs never bothered
anyone, but sometimes
the neighborhood dogs
would sing along
with melancholy howls,
that shook the whole town’s
dreams but didn’t wake them.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s