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.

first ripe tomato

still cradling warmth from the sun—

honey on my tongue

the old fruit seller

content to fondle lemons

and caress the plums

echolocation

leading bat mom to supper—

twice her weight in flies