Yellow Roses

Have not written a single 
word today, for you. 
As if I was fishing 
without a line. 

Mixing the precursors 
on the hills to invite the 
mustard moon, for a�"� 
dance with kingfishers. 

There was no grief, no 
scars. My hands becoming 
empty. Parrots are gone. 
There was no speech, no goodbyes. 

The book is blank. Un�"� 
printed pages. Nothing more 
to be said. Only a smoke 
tracing a face inside a face.