a footfall, then
the moss returning
to its quiet
first lantern · dusk path
chikayami
Near is the warmth still in the stones; far is the blue that has not yet decided to be night. Between them a path goes on without us, and the cedars keep the wind the way a teahouse keeps an old conversation.
cedar shadow
longer than the day
and gentler
second lantern · slope hush
a firefly lifts —
the mountain breathes
out its amber
third lantern · first light above moss
2024.10
Walked the lower switchbacks until the light went the color of weak tea. A grouse the size of a kettle crossed and did not hurry. I learned again that the path does not need me to be on it.
2024.11
First frost on the railing of the teahouse bench. The proprietor left a lantern lit even with no one expected. Some kindnesses are arranged for the dark, not for the guest.
2025.01
Snow held in the cedar tops like held breath. I sat long enough that my own warmth made a small thaw under me. When I rose the shape stayed a moment, then the slope forgot it.
2025.03
The first moss greening at the spring's lip. A monk's whistle, two notes, far off and unhurried.
2025.05
Fireflies returned to the low meadow at the hour the name describes — near light, near dark. I counted six and then stopped counting, which is the only honest way to count them.
this note was folded and left here on 2026.05.07 — chikayami.net