Eighty years of dust

And tears, old friends reaping their

Garden of stories

 

 

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A gathering of
wide embraces, holding
what light they can

 

 

June, after noon
Thrush songs, leaf songs, dove calls
A petal falls

 

Cloud-sent light, curving
trail, emerald depths — and
 livingkind

 

 

 

Shower of petals
Like heaps of red and white urns
Lightly, their light

 

Like a star
in the hand, a present
from the future

 

 

She waits without a sound
No hurry. Her stories of sky
Melt into ground