after a fall
and an overturned chair
I suddenly don't care
if the picture
is crooked

the pods from last year
still attached
to the catalpa
I have yet to master 
the art of letting go

this year on easter
and april fool's day
the up rising
of daffodils 
falling in the snow

if this is a dream...
a single strand of hair
carried by the wind
I never get to see
where it lands

you were always
planning our next trip
summer solstice
the darkness
filled with fireflies

With The Moon

These are tanka I wrote several years ago. They were published on "The Anglo-Japanese Society" website which is no longer accessible.

with the moon 
against the darkness
I start out small 
in just a sliver
of canoe

lost streets
that twist without reason
except to hold
the shadows
of other people's stories

in the anatomy
of a gray feather
barely a spine--
is that all it takes
to travel so lightly

this morning the river
carries the news before
I can write it down
three deer are swimming
towards me

buried in hands
a face tired
of holding itself up
I know not if this church
is for prayer or sorrow

the red-faced stare
of a rundown house
like tall tales
no one remembers
where the bricks came from

through hills and valleys

the water flows uninterrupted

until it turns into river--

we drink in the views 

along with traces of metal

For Ken

so this Christmas

overcast and rainy

I stay close to the fire

holding onto your words

a little longer

the book discussion opens
with an arranged circle
of mismatched chairs
we get to know each other
by putting on our name tags

maybe it's because
the pictures have been taken
off the walls
I'm so shaken by dreams
that I can't remember

I leave the bed
and coffee unmade.
It's 2 am and I'm off
to the hospital driving
with my sun visor down.

feeling taller after 
a good morning stretch
I hunch over my checkbook
shrinking a little more
after each bill

they met here years ago
installing park equipment
once again
they climb the steep hill 
and rest on bench 19

hundreds of stories
in those gnarled hands
he works through his pain
by peeling the labels
off pill bottles

burying the embers
of an October campfire
there's no debate
Trump's "locker room" talk
is about sexual assault

yellowstone
on a clear day
wildness echoes
in the mountains of bison
crossing the prairie

no matter how much it hurt

she felt disconnected 

from the lost clumps of hair

the same way she tried to disconnect

from being raped again

muted tv

the silent bats 

of baseball players

we miss hearing dad

call the strike zone

such big returns
on a small investment
the roadside stock
of purple and white
irises