The glass remains unchanged but what I see through it differs moment by moment. This door is truly of a port in air; I observe these shifting days, their translucent seconds ever ticking. Nothing rests—the Texas mountain laurel's blossoms fade and flutter to the ground while the wind weaves intricate patterns through its branches. Rogue onion sprouts scatter throughout this small section of yard, and a squirrel scampers along the cedar pickets. Light slants through a hole in the clouds. A hummingbird buzzes by. Even the earth moves, and five minutes ago rain tapped out an inconsistent tune on my metal roof. I lift the shakuhachi to my lips, and exhaling, enter the day.

three dogs yapping
announce spring's arrival
oh, sweet music!


Waiting, I open myself but nothing enters. Even music's comfort avoids me, preferring calmer ports or perhaps another's wind choices. I drop the weighted cord through the flute, pull it, and watch the cloth emerge. Some days pain drags behind me no matter what words trickle out, what phrases follow. Last night brought the season's first fireflies. This wall of books grows taller each day.

exhaling, I note
smudges in the sky—
oh, dirty window

ROBERT OKAJI lives in the Texas hill country, amongst teetering piles of books. The author of five poetry chapbooks, his work has appeared or is forthcoming in Vox Populi, Underfoot Poetry, Nthanda Review, Panoply, North Dakota Quarterly, and elsewhere. Twitter: @robertokaji // Blog: