moonrise

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

~

reading

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…

foxgloves

at the crumbling window

of a tumbledown cottage

~

rain-washed grey…

how floating words

become water lilies

when I read the name

Monet

~

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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