Lodged

my journey begins—

Buddha becomes the pebble

lodged in my left shoe

Sick

sick of the journey

seeking refuge at day’s end

in a sad motel

seven clowns tumbling

in a solitary place—

only one hand claps

in a clear glass jar

three daisies picked this morning

by my youngest son

still five months away—

New Year’s Eve and little ones

scribbling in the snow

my garden at dawn—

a shower of plum blossoms

flooding the footpath

Summer vanishes

as the school bell starts ringing,

despite the child’s cries.