Saturday, September 1, 2012

small poems, august 2012

white butterfly
on this August morning
I'd follow you anywhere

Tibetan prayer flags — 
Grandma would call them schmatas —
she'd say it kindly

midnight in the garden —
where dreams and daisies
meet to gossip

little bird
we met in the sunflower patch
I wish I knew your name

mating dragonflies
I try to ignore them  
though they are not shy  

burning through the heart 
of a sunflower —
August afternoon

snow falling
on my pillow
mid-August nightmare

abandoned umbrella
holds a raincloud's

miles apart
my sister and I 
breathing together

August evening
nothing but cicadas —
and then . . . .

stored under winter blankets —
your Olivetti typewriter —

Grandmother Buddha
twiddles her thumbs —
content in her mudra

don't be sad
our shadows
share a happy secret

starting over
again and again and again —
patient spider

waiting for you to return
I wonder —
will the rain ever stop?

your photograph  
taken in dense mountain fog —
you were already disappearing

for miles along the beach
wheel tracks —
runaway baby carriage

50 years later
shaking the conch shell —
one final grain of sand

the last rose
packs up her petals 
and flies away

that park in Paris —
even in summer
snow still falls 
(oh, memory)

hurrying past
the fortune-teller’s window
I trip

the earth —
my skin —
dry —
late August drought

out of the silence
my neighbor's Buddhist lawn mower —

in tall August grass
my neighbor's stone pagoda
still standing

leaving the antique store
she holds the world in her hands 
old globe — young girl

mourning dove
flies into my dream —
landing on scarecrow's head

a last gift from the garden — 
orange flower dust
on her old boots