Murmuration
Renga Sequence
clouds gathered in the tea room leave no trace moonless dewdrops line the garden path down night cliffs a sweet wind carries into ink black rustling boughs these scattered leaves a chrysanthemum that nobody cut collecting frost its white face in the weathered mirror peeking sun caught in a net reflected birds a thread suspended in the empty light on either side the ocean weaves a pink sky stars shine through dark heat a fraying tapestry in the bright wind a cloud of blossoms losing its shape over my lover twilight draped hills revealed under crisp petals quivering breath the crow at dusk shatters the rain lake fragrance tucked at the peak voices skipping stones traveling sinking in first light at my feet a blade of grass left trembling the violin awake in the field wild winds in the horse’s hair chasing green all trace vanishing in deep forest shade awoken these moss veils covering me pines throw dark and light over dead irises a shard of glass on the pavement emits a gleam this road bends beneath silken fog wrapped in mists a hanging cocoon moth rising breath moving slow through incense smoke wildflower sighs through open windows without rooms a note in fallen sun bleached unreadable script the cicada almost silent in the heat thundering brush a freight train sounds steam rises the whistling kettle tracks in snow one drop of water still on the glass stirring shadows from a streetlight an owl calls silent coyote eating plastic package remains brittle leaves scrape the street at midnight plum embers drift burning constellations
 | A guest post by
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 | A guest post by
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I always love how these come together!
The sequence feels like wandering through a series of tiny, self‑contained moments, each one slipping into the next before you’ve fully grasped it. There’s a quiet, almost meditative quality to the images, as if the poem were teaching you to pay attention to things you’d normally overlook. Frost on a chrysanthemum, a trembling blade of grass, a kettle whistling into snow — they all land with a kind of gentle clarity. The shifts between voices are so smooth you barely notice them; it feels like one long breath shared between three minds. What struck me most is how the poem holds stillness and movement at the same time. Nothing lingers, yet everything leaves a faint mark. It’s like walking through a landscape that keeps changing shape around you, but never loses its calm. By the end, you’re left with a soft, lingering quiet, as if the world has slowed down just enough for you to notice it.