the stillness of bamboo…

the salt taste

of his tears

before they well


the stem of life

pulsing at her milk-white wrist

the granddaughter

you never knew

nurtures your love of snowdrops



a history of tanka…

against the window

each swollen raindrop

bursts with birdsong


little bird

you could only flutter

in my gilded cage

your one brush with summer

was the bliss of unborn skies


for those lost too young

may my heart be an ocean

of rage, never still…

lest I wade out open-armed

and forget my self


still, she keeps

a light on for him…


at the crumbling window

of a tumbledown cottage


rain-washed grey…

how floating words

become water lilies

when I read the name



these words, handpainted

on a butterfly’s wing

incapable of flight

until they find

their symmetry in you


I dream of the life

you will write for yourself

with a blue feather

of a jay’s wing

and the ink of spring flowers



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