Shrill of one hundred katydids chirring together
Squeak of my bicycle wheel turning click, clack
Thrum of violet autumn breeze grinding under
the water wheel like grains just unloaded at the mill
A cluster of cloud colder than the baby's cheek
—having fed on nothing but the tears of a single mother,
aboard a carriage bound for a faraway land for adoption—
descending from the sky, blanketing my hand
The little cloud with an aroma of the one,
forever an infant, for a thousand long years
At each bend of an alleyway as my bicycle wheel
carves the path round and rolling,
an apple as large as the home village to which I returned gently peeling
Perched on the raised mat, a senile grandma at the mom-and-pop
scooping out the big apple with a spoon,
her gums chewing and crushing each morsel