Late Autumn In Takayama

Forgotten hills rise from the sphere’s surface,
White hills, and black rivers buried
In the folds of the earth.

Gold lengths of light drape like thread
Over the hills, gently;
Silver snow sinks into black waters,
Melts away
Like the falling afternoon.

Snow on the rivers, it thaws
As sunshine wearies the bones, makes them heavy
And pulls us,
Into bed.