In the ink’s black orchard,
I hear the quill’s slow harvest —
letters ripening in the dark,
their skins thin as moonlit rice paper.
A moth, pale as a forgotten cousin,
rests on the margin,
its wings patterned with the map
of a river that no longer flows.
I write until the page
becomes a window,
and the window a mouth
that exhales the scent
of rain on old cedar.
.