Just before the forest dons its robes of fresh green,
trees begin to bud in tones of burnished silver,
drifting, suspended, like breath held in early light.

I tread upon the winter’s fallen leaves,
their brittle voices whispering beneath each step,
as I move along the quiet grove,
listening to the sound that spreads—
low, wide, and reaching into the soil.

When I turn my thoughts to the fate
of things that scatter, flow, and fade—
outpacing time, dissolving into the formless—
what words remain to be spoken?

My own memory is far too small.
Fragments unearthed from time’s deep bed
refuse to linger in the present eye,
slipping once more into the vast, unknown distance.

Before such flickering, ever-shifting scenes,
no single truth may be inscribed.

April 2025

Nanako Kaji