Quiet, quiet
spring clouds float
across the garden wall,
at tips of branches
under the leaves
rising and falling.
In empty space
suddenly
“substance within void,”
mixed, confused patterns,
forms hard to distinguish
in the darkness.
Softly they dance
beneath moon and clouds—
all an illusion;
silently invade
screen and curtain
giving off no fragrance.
My boy servant
takes them for lichens
tries to sweep them away
but they are only
shadows of flowers
growing beside the winding balustrade.