Bun

the baker

has only one bun

one bun left

Scolding

walking the fence line

while a rooster keeps scolding

the late-rising sun

first days of autumn—

in the old stone Buddha’s lap

one yellowed plum leaf

Indian summer—

in the old stone Buddha’s lap

weed seeds germinate

feeling their presence

in the quivering wind chimes—

her dead twin daughters

in conversation

we pass this autumn evening—

seven fertile hours

the winter lagoon

only a tattered sparrow

at the water’s edge

adding one more page

of drought tales to her journal

with a fountain pen

toward a stand of pines

three raven feathers drifting

drifting in the wind

midnight thunderstorm

gazing at constellations

swirling down the drain