Ponte lungo – ing.

The winter lake still hasn’t frozen.
Through dark branches of pathside hornbeam
a hundred golden persimmon beat
on a slope of dusk and hillside wind.
Each fruit hangs, a Chinese lantern,
vulnerable and desirable as next year’s songs.
The path crosses a stream whose icy clarity
plucks dregs spiralling into the lake
like words dancing into oblivion.
For a moment, from this angle,
the waters grow luminous. Another step
and constellations sway by your feet.