Who painted this, a scene imbued with such almost recklessly overt atmosphere? Yes, I can hear the falling snow, and yet again, I glance at the perhaps forlorn figure in the distance, to check if he, or she has perhaps stepped forward. What anticipation! What a story is unfolding, with no past or future, yet a story so full it is almost bursting…
in a crowd of snowflakes
as lonely as the night
Remember, Yasuko, when you told me about art?
When you frothed the bright green tea with a brush, and let it settle, then handed me the small bowl with two hands, bowing.
"You must feel the warmth of the cup, inhale the aroma, and taste," you’d said. "If you do not focus on these things and get distracted, then by the time you are ready the time will be gone."
She had giggled, though, when I kissed her fingertips after the tea. "I learnt a new word today," she said. "You are a rogue. I learnt the word in the dissinary."
Her accent was soft, her voice quiet within the paper walls. And I saw that her kimono slid easily when I kissed her bare shoulder.