The Spot

two hands
to hold or to have

with the trees as our witness,
ask

for the sparrows that record our song

The Tree

There’s a tree which grows on the side of the road.
It stands not alone, nor hidden at the heart of an enchantied woodland.
Ordinary and unassuming, it meekly joins the scattered foliage dotting the local park.

Pass this plant on your trek to work, and notice how you don’t notice it at all.
Listen as it asks no attention of you. Feel the stagnant air as the modest tree
makes no attempt to draw you in. Its aura keeps to itself, taking only the space that its bark requires.

Pass the tree again, however, as you head back home to the warmth of blankets,
the delight and safety of lying down. Pass the tree when the night has fallen, when the sun itself has fallen too.

Nature

The light of moon cascading down
illuminates the night.
An unexplored and tempting scene
awaits my taking flight.

It calls to me.

By morning, tired and less pristine,

Snowfall

Light but firm
was the kiss of snow the sky gave
the dotted tops of all the brown and green.

Perhaps light firmness is seen instead of felt,
for my lips cannot recall receiving such a one.

What has impressed
upon these rose petals?
Other things-

April Haiku

Enamored folks in
the breeze stay silent. This sun
warms but cannot burn.

Spring Haiku

From snow, some strong leaves
would not fall. For new buds though,
the strongest will leap.

Winter Night

If the sky is navy and the sun gives off
a lingering bumblebee glow-
If the snow dares to fall but is too shy to stay,
and you start to sense that you’re alone-

If the village is distant and you’re in the desert-

I see how you feel in my soul,
but what do you hear, and what do you cry?
What secrets do you know?

Precious Things

Clustered leaves form a nest for the cloud
as I lie below, the tree’s outstretched arms
strengthened and still, waiting for the sky’s crown
to up and flit away, as I sit upon the tree’s feet
like a second weight, fragile as a burden,
heavy as royalty.

Kings Alight

Place me among the breast of the blue jay when it claps its wings,
that I too may turn concave,
blown back by its power’s rush,

The Loudness of the Night

It is with urgency that the crickets chirp in each other’s gaps.
The wind rushes through the reeds on repeat,
as a lapping wave. And the owls insist
on crying out their rhetoric. Would that I had done