Rooms – lacunae in the bamboo – are almost indiscernible, joined by narrow passageways between stalks percussing, tuned by grace.
When we first found the stand
it was dusk,
the mass of dense bamboo full of the movement and music of birds.
Wall of sound
We thought we had come upon a house.
Now just a mound – wild roses, a majestic oak, a peony that won’t bloom this year, a perimeter of daffodills.
And the bamboo.