Clover

last of the clover—

picking three fragrant blossoms

for her morning tea

Shoe

cricket in her shoe

still chiming a morning song

as her foot slips in

not enough light left

for brushing on rice paper

even one haiku

one of a kind—

the bloom on her left cheek

from his right hand

in the temple court

crickets chiming endless psalms

holy summer nights

how helpful

to clinging mosses

rough oak skin

how blurry

without my glasses

the blue kites