To paint so clear a scene
with so few words
just twenty syllables
that is a skill
I envy and have
yet to learn
twelve centuries
have passed and still the little maid
stands deftly poling
her light craft
across the page
her stash
of stolen lily blossoms
at her feet
she's headed homeward
through the thick duckweed
that parts to let the boat
pass through but leaves
a wake that gives
the heedless girl away