Pioneer Square, so sunny it feels good.
Next to me, waiting for the walk light,
a trim woman smiles hello.
Encouraged, I return the smile.
Crossing First Avenue, she’s a fine sight.
I follow, ready for
casual, tasteful ogling.
She moves quickly.
My pace increases.
I scamper to keep up.
She skips up the steep terminal steps.
I am breathless,
more aware of falling behind
than of her bottom.
When I reach
the top step
she is
gone.

(No. 52 in a series of responses to Han-shan’s Songs of Cold Mountain)

Alas.

(Numeric reference to Han-shan’s poem reflects the order of presentation in Burton Watson’s translation, presented as Cold Mountain, Columbia University Press, 1970.)