Hand Song

Brush the silk with gold
then stroke in
whatever your hand hears:
black swordthrusts for bamboo,
anthracite eye and feather tuft
for bird,
soft swirls of orchid stroke, that special line,
the rhythm of smoke rising
on a quiet afternoon.
Under the rock, three lines say frog
to two called dragonfly.
The brush lifts listening
for the last clear note.