Poetry / December 2013 (Issue 22)


by Elizabeth Schultz

No one heard us enter
the Temple Where Blue Begins.
We noted the small basket,
its spray of azalea, a stone
with its hollow of water.
We slid glass shoji open to see
a camellia drifting by, a mid-day
moon, on a stream of azure moss,
and no one heard us leave.
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