Threnody

 
 
 

these wasted places—
 
no verdant cornfields singing,
 
threnody of dust

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Early

 
 
 

too early
 
the white rose unfurls
 
then freezes

Birdsong

 
 
 

Imagine the sound,
 
wee wren, of one hand clapping
 
to silence your song.

Cicada

 
 
 

cicada
 
still annoying me
 
at midnight

Children

 
 
 

Children, hold my hand
 
as we cross the busy street
 
to the promised land.

Wolf Moon

 
 
 

Wolf Moon,
 
are you howling
 
again?

Sees

 
 
 

Opening her eyes,
 
she sees not one, but seven,
 
gaunt and starving cows.