Mono no Aware

Strangely bright near midnight
a blanket of clouds reflects the
city-lights even way out here.
The dog chases some phantom
scent across the field as a warm
winter mist hovers, not quite falling.

I learned a new phrase in Japanese,
mono no aware, which was translated
as “the ineffable sadness of being.”
In a few minutes it will be February.
I wish I had a cigarette, and whistle
for the bounding dog’s return.

Thinking of you, sleeping perhaps, the
rhythmic rise and fall of your breasts,
the wisp of hair across your face.
My lips remember the feel of your
skin across so many miles, so many years.
Silently, softly, the mist rolls down.