Once a year when the lunar light spills
ashen and hollow across the decaying wooden gate,
the restless ones lower themselves
from the branches of the great sentinel pine.
Along the beetle-carved maps of time that ridge
and swirl in bark, they glide and drop one by one.
One by one, they file into the serrated line that approaches
a row of crumbling stone lanterns coated with moss.
The fire boxes with their flames unmade. They stand
in silence, watching the wisps of ancient dreams rustle
and bloom and settle like moths floating back down to earth.
There’s no way to walk in reverse to when bark was smooth
and lanterns brimmed with something close to love.
Instead, they take turns looking through the holes
in the stone until the hollows drink up the moon,
until they wane as cicadas stir and begin their daily work
of weeping.
lae astra is an artist and writer who calls Tokyo home. Their work can be found in Astrolabe, Feral, Star*Line, Strange Horizons, and elsewhere. They are a Pushcart and Best Microfiction nominee. You can find them at laeastra.com/links.
photo by lin zhaohai (via unsplash)
Crow & Cross Keys 