Lately, I’ve been thinking about how certain moments stay in the body.
Not always the dramatic ones. Sometimes it’s something quieter that lingers. The scent of cut hay, moonlight over water, the feeling of being unable to sleep while the dark seems to listen back. I think that’s part of why I keep returning to tanka. I love how the form, with its five short lines, asks for precision but still leaves room for atmosphere, memory, and emotional echo. It’s a small container, but it can hold a surprising amount of feeling.
These three poems came out of that space for me — where memory meets landscape, where something beautiful is already beginning to disappear, and where emotion changes shape through image.
Before the Bloom Fell Still
When we spoke that day
the cherry blossoms swayed soft,
and the meadows filled
with scent of newly cut hay
before the tender bloom fell still.
This first one feels like looking back at something tender that has already passed its moment of fullness. I wanted the softness of blossom and hay to carry that sense of nearness — and the ache of knowing it could not last.
Lunar Dreams
Lunar dreams drift by
gently through my open palms,
like a night-born fire.
Moonlight veiled in ocean mist
is pulled by salt-shifting waves.
The second moves more through feeling than memory. It came from wanting to write something dreamlike and tidal — something about being guided by what you can’t fully hold.
Garden of Bones
In this garden of bones
sleep will not come to me now.
Desert wind whispers,
drumming hard against my ears,
no shadow dares cross these dunes.
And this last one belongs to a darker place. Sleeplessness, unease, a landscape that feels almost cursed. I was drawn to the starkness of it — how a place can begin to mirror an inner state.
Thank you for reading. I’m always grateful to share these quieter pieces here.
— Jonna
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