To an Old Artist at Home

A small, ancient child
Makes tracks in the snow.
She’s eighty. She could be eight.

She carries a pot of ink
She ladles into the snow,
Making kanji of her tracks
And poetry as she goes.

I’m glad I can’t read
Or speak the language she writes.
I like seeing a message
Palpable and mute.

Her ink shines black in a world
Of greys, browns, and white.
I’d guess her poem concerns night.