at the monastery
we walk
clockwise
like the sun
moves in our sky.
we spin
each bronze wheel
one after another.
we seek harmony
turning
these 12th century
fidget spinners.
at the monastery
we walk
clockwise
like the sun
moves in our sky.
we spin
each bronze wheel
one after another.
we seek harmony
turning
these 12th century
fidget spinners.

Dawn paints
brilliant crimson
honeysuckle harbour.
Aristocratic egret
preys on
indigo fish.
My city wakes.

Holding babies,
Making art,
Singing loudly
In the rain.

rain
drops
fill
with sun on grass,
miniature prisms
sparkling
cherry,
daffodil,
jade.
fence
lit
gold
at
regular
intervals,
interstices
gradually decrease
w/ distance.
Spring is the time of death.
Look out the windows;
Mist and memory drift
from the verdant hills.
At road’s curb,
mangled
bat wing
slate sky.
I drive.
Death lays.
mist rises
water
to sky
absorbing
soaking
caressing
golden sphere.
shadows cast
sails
float
and
seagulls
rise
It is at
Forest edges
Where we see them
Most clearly.
Shadow laid on shadow
Cut by sunlight
Bare branches
Life tightly sealed inside
Bark and layered rings
Counting years
Back into past.
All cast against
Cerulean winter sky
So clear
I can almost see
The infinite
Stars
Beyond.
Morning,
the young beggar stands,
blanket thrown over narrow shoulders,
flimsy white undershirt,
a pile of rags at his feet.
We in cars ignore him,
cast eyes at ruby stop light,
and rising cobalt sky.
Escaped sunflower,
sits in a car, a
moon faced woman
w/ styled bob,
reads her cell phone.
Wheeling seagulls
search for garbage.
Undershirt,
dull khaki jeans,
work boots,
he smokes the 2nd cigarette of the day,
carefully counts them out.
He carries his sign
with jaunty steps,
but
his eyes
are hollow.
crunchy under my foot
cat’s been
hunting crickets again