someone missing flowers

it is morning five-fifteen eastern time

along the American seaboard

so there is no one to call from Taiwan

at five-fifteen after noon

no one there thinking of me

though she may be in bed awake

unable to sleep

birds here fly their dusk time patterns

in crystalline pre-typhoon air

on a poet’s bench facing the Han

thinking of her dark wakefulness

next to a snoring husband

as i strain to hear a singing bird

above the din of weekend traffic

heading home for Monday

she tries closing her eyes

relieved her tomorrow is Sunday

and does not see me squinting

to see a patch of wild pink flowers

no longer hugging

a blanched boulder

on the other side of the river

gone away in one day’s passing

as long shadows reach across the empty space

she does not think of someone missing flowers

somewhere along a Taichung river

on an island off the coast of China

july 23, 2017