Diary
In the morning, I cut the scrawny, overgrown eyebrows of chrysanthemum flowers with scissors.
In the afternoon, I wrote and mailed off a postcard to the stag beetle that visited the edge of the porch last summer.
I also asked the doctor who came to mend the broken persimmon tree to repair its shade, too.
I counted seventy-three wild geese filing into the edge of the roof, then stopped counting.
The evening penetrated into the kitchen, but I turned down the light
and ate from a couple of kinds of cup.
Even so, what can be more important than this?
[The 1st Asian Literature Festival 2017]
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