In the wild

 Listening to the wind 

lapping at the water's edge

dust that comes 

from faraway

still floating above the current

exchanging some time

with a few old trees

we're waiting

for the sun to set

over the waterfall

waiting for the rainbow

to gather its brilliance

and drown the basement 

of the valley

waiting for the starry eyes

to gently slide

into the field of dream

 waiting for a native voice

to shout out my nickname

old laurel tree reclining by the waterside

full of the chanting of cicadas

and cygnets

and fragrance of flowers

that's brimming

dilapidated storehouse

must have been in disrepair for years

and years

watermill, dredge and pipe

a hard scab of time

a handful of fallen leaves at this point

drift by

placing a kind of ache

on someone's heart.