By Kokoro Still
Some sounds arrive without asking to be heard.
They ride the summer wind,
pause for a breath,
and vanish before you can name them.
A furin does not mark the hour—
it listens,
letting the air speak in its own language.
In that shimmer between wind and glass,
Kokoro stirs,
as if answering a call too quiet for words.
The First Note
Midsummer.
Even the shade still held the warmth of noon.
Under the eaves,
a wind chime caught the breeze.
Its first tone was a drop of coolness falling into heavy air—
the light touch of glass slipping between heartbeats.
The sound slowly crossed the engawa,
as if the afternoon itself had drawn closer to listen,
and entered the quiet corner where memory rests.
Breaths of Wind
The wind came in uneven breaths.
Sometimes the bell was still,
its paper strip hanging like a held breath;
sometimes it swayed suddenly,
releasing a tone that spilled into the warm light.
The cicadas sang without pause,
yet the sound of the furin
opened a small pause between their voices.
It waited for the wind it knew would come—
a small exchange between air and glass,
open to the world, claimed by no one.
Where Coolness Lingers
Sitting on the engawa,
I watched the furin sway quietly under the eaves.
Its glass caught a thread of wind,
and the sound spread through the heat
like cool water poured from a ladle.
For a moment, the air grew lighter,
as if summer’s hand had loosened its hold.
I closed my eyes,
letting the sound sink deeper,
until even the weight of the season felt far away.
I stayed where I was,
letting that note settle into the engawa,
and into Kokoro,
as quietly as it had arrived—
a small coolness to keep,
even when the heat returned.
Featured image: The image was created by AI (ChatGPT)
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