All that whimpers isn’t want.
One spring, I pulled
a reed from an oboe.
I planted it by a pond.
Instantly, it grew
dense at the water’s edge.
The wind told lie after lie—
black cricket like a jewel,
black motion of a goose’s
vibrating neck. I parted
the reeds but nothing
was there. I was steeped
in evening’s almosts—
a symphony in a cup of water.
image: Dorothy Chan
