Morning Mist

A complex question― 
it was. Why your 
hands were trembling? 

The body becomes 
a kayak. You were sailing 
alone in the lake of bluebells. 

Elegy and epilogue 
become one. I have come 
to meet my humming bird. 

Still suspended in 
deathless space, the sun 
wants to hide. 

The revelation 
was not to solve the enigma, 
but to listen to inside.