Night Writing on My Mother's Good Ear

Mother's ear pressed to paper—
or is it the moon, listening
through the moth-eaten dark?

In sleep, I am both
the brush and the water,
the leaf turning silver
before it knows it will fall.

You appear
like calligraphy bleeding
through rice paper:
first the shadow,
then the word,
then the ache
of meaning.

Each breath sketches
another wing—
graphite dust
on my tongue,
teaching me
how things dissolve:

First the body.
Then the name.
Then the space
between your hand
and the morning
it reached for.

In this language
of smudges and stains,
even decay
holds light—
each petal
a door
closing
softly
on its own
ghost.