First Snow

waiting for first snow

the last day of November—

an empty duck pond

Plum Blossoms

seven plum blossoms

singing to me at daybreak

in a fragrant tongue

a full beaver moon

rising over the mountains—

my bowl is empty

her sadness

a steady rainfall

through the night

She thought it was love—

when the rose petals faded,

she thought otherwise.

rhythm in her soul—

rain tattooing on the roof

2:15 a.m.

three birches

their silvery throats

quivering

Peeking through the hedge,

a monk bemused by birdsong

stumbles home to pray.

In the little church,

though she appears to listen,

her toes scratch the beach.

one life

many circles

no end