Mùān Xìngtāo’s Calligraphy

(pronunciation: moo-ahn  shing-ta’ow)

survived hundreds of years

to hang boldly on paper,

waiting for viewers like me to 

find the wall with five characters

wanting me to understand 

something he experienced 350 years ago.

But I am distracted from the ink because 

my lover stands so close we almost touch, and 

I consider the miracle that 

made Xìngtāo’s moon shine 

through my window 

caressing my lover’s calm countenance

uncovering contemplations

leisurely revealing locks of hair

highlighting hips. And

I wonder 

When the bright light shines on my ink 

will my lover see my soul? 

Is my love as indelible as Xìngtāo’s ink? 

Will it withstand the hardships 

that his paper did? Or 

will someone bear witness to my words 

and think of something vastly different 

than my characters?