Teak crickets in a marble fog,
those old branches creak, break, and rock.
Within a minute hovel, a little mouse squeaks,
whilst the bullfrogs—they do hop.
In the garden outside, I see my escape,
for the world's not as bleak as it seems.
No bodily decay from hopeless nights
could distract me from this Gainsboroughesque scene.
For today, the great sun can burn the flesh,
and there are more lemons on the trees than normal.
I’ll come and go from this place—'til only I go,
and cease laying black ink in this journal.
It all ends with me, in this body, this mind,
these writings that this paradise can stir.
I only hope one day someone else takes a pen
and plucks the beauty from right out of the air.