I trace the calligraphy of clouds
along the lacquered sky,
listen for the susurrus
of wind in bamboo:
a syllable, a soft sigh,
telling where the path bends
before my feet reach it.
In my mother’s kitchen,
steam rises from dumpling broth,
and I know, before she says:
that someone waits,
that a letter comes,
that the old tree outside
has shifted in root-deep sleep.
The market hums in tongues
I half-understand,
clink of coins, sizzle of oil,
a rhythm in marrow
calling me toward small truths:
red lanterns swinging
over alleys of half-light,
unseen faces
nodding before I see them.
Intuition is the hush
between chopstick and bowl,
the flicker of candle flame,
the soft echo of ancestral feet
treading hallways
where I now walk, listening,
learning to know before I touch.
–
David A. Lee is a physician and emerging poet born on the Pine Ridge Indian Reservation. His work explores memory, culture, and perception, drawing on his experiences in medicine and diverse cultural heritage. He has published poetry in literary journals and continues to craft work that bridges the internal and external landscapes of knowing.
© 2025, David A. Lee
Halfway Down the Stairs 