enticing ducks
with false mating cries –
the hunter’s decoy

 
the ants’ hill
dwarves mountains
for its use

 
with little warning,
the leaves dead,
the ground white

 
winter moon:
faint rays of light
on naked trees

 
a blue jay lights
on a dogwood branch-
spring morning

 
picked for beauty,
lively wildflowers
rot

 
while the composer
wrote, the crickets played
a natural song

 
wind through yellow leaves,
acorns falling to the ground-
hoard, squirrel: winter draws near

 
the thawing stream
flows past the naked tree –
a robin lights on a branch

 
on the shore line,
waves caress the hot sand –
white angels

 
soaking leaves in the gutter,
more rain falling –
a bleak November morning

 
a still winter night – 
the brittle sky split by thunder
like a window shattering

 
the pathways of clouds
are also the roads
of birds

 
an apple fell from
the tree, rolling to
the farmer’s son

 
ice reflecting the moon,
still air –
cold peace

 
the sky weeps snowflakes –
the schoolboy cries
joy

 
the sun peeks through the trees –
the turtle hides inside
itself

 
the man washed his face
in the creek
and saw himself

 
a robin red in the oak –
I blink, and
she is gone

 
flowers grow silently –
crickets spoke noisily –
rivers do both

 
the awake fish
flowed with the river

 
humid summer night –
a baby cries,
it begins to rain

 
the moon shines
on the open sea –
a lone whale surveys the beauty

 
bitter December Sunday –
the full moon reflecting
on the ground

 
heat lightening
deep thunder –
my candle makes no sound

 
loneliness –
standing on the shore,
a single star in the sky

 
dull light,
dull heat,
but still the snow melts

 
first snow –
a long summer’s toil
killed overnight

 
freed from the bramble
the bird flies away –
my mind’s course

 
morning bell rings –
no bird songs
and my throat hurts

 
hammer on the floor,
silence pierced –
I cannot meditate
 
I tap the carpet,
            four fingered blues –
soon, in Japan, they’ll feel my sorrow

 
Sleeping nearby –
a buddha
and a prostitute.

 
Water drips through
my home’s roof,
and I have no mop.

 
Rain hums through my
gutter, and I lie,
sliding to sleep.

 
Imagined dustballs
gather in the corners –
see them, and clean.

 
The pine needles
scrape on the windows –
I scrape encased from inside.

 
The humble pine
looms over the naked
winter oak.

 
No single cloud –
the whole sky is
wet gray.

 
Rain drips down
the windows –
mist kisses the edges.

 
The fields empty,
no children’s joy cries –
winter in Pennsylvania.

 
The flower sat still
as the bee
danced in its insides.

 
The wick flickered
in the cloudy wind –
nothing bests the sun.

 
A rainy January –
dark as dusk
at the noontime meal.

 
At the morning’s dawn,
the pond reflects
golden silence.

 
The falling snow
turned to rain –
this slush is heavy!

 
Rainy winter –
soaking fall leaves
decay on rooftops.

 
No birds singing
in the gray sky –
wet January.

 
Naked branches clutch
at my home –
skeletal claws of the dead.

 
The mosquito landed on
my arm and
drank its fill.

 
One tall tree sways –
the short dogwoods
stand straight still.

 
A few dead leaves
flutter, still hanging loosely
from the tree.

 
A stilled pond,
a stilled heart –
let us rest in peace!

 
Sunlight beats on
the old stone wall –
the farmer’s son sits on it.