Okra

first day of summer—

trampling the neighbor’s okra

in a fit of rage

Matins

To hear the wild goose,

even the priest at matins

stops mumbling God’s name.

blueberry muffin

bigger than moonrise in June—

nibbling the edges

The river breezes—

how many years have flowed by

since they cooled my skin?

soldiers at My Lai

shooting in all directions

anything that moves

under the willow

waiting for the next flight south

a gaggle of geese

trembling fingers

unwrapping the straw mat

for the last time

discarded clamshell

cradling every drop of rain

from the midnight storm

on a lily pad

tonight the skin of the frog

glowing with the moon

Ploughing or praying—

even the monk cannot tell

which is holier.