I will always remember your fingers on my face.

And how they summon
images of bamboo leaves spinning
in the unhurried dance of free fall.

Your fingers have given my face
what, in speech, would be called a name
and what the mind would call a memory

And such memory reveals the wisdom of making room.

When the bamboo hollows itself
in anticipation of water, and wind,
and lips that thirst for water or music,

It frees slender bamboo leaves that anticipate no use or need.

I will remember your fingers
and how you touched my face
with your eyes.

There is no word
for what the heart endures
in the single moment

When space is re-created

To make room
for dreams of wind
and of slender bamboo leaves falling.

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