In a bottle marked Snow from a place called Ohara,
I dipped my thoughts as soft as sakura.
The ink ran pale as a whispered goodbye,
Like foxprints fading in midwinter sky.
With nib of gold, and fox engraved,
I followed the trail where silence behaved.
No shout, no glare, just a brush of a tail,
And answers that speak in the hush of a veil.
A flick of the ear. A pause in the pine.
Ink swirled like tea leaves in snow-silent time.
The fox didn’t speak — not in words, not aloud —
But left me this poem. I’m grateful, and proud.
And still I remember what he said with a sigh:
“What is essential is invisible to the eye.”
winterwhiskers 