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
reflection
miles apart
my sister and I
breathing together
August evening
nothing but cicadas —
and then . . . .
stored under winter blankets —
your Olivetti typewriter —
speechless
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 —
Ommmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm
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
