Rage

first day of summer—

trampling all the marigolds

in a fit of rage

Words

three words from her pen

may last seven centuries

or seven seconds

in the tired hotel

reflecting on her failures—

deep razor slashes

Though it is eager

to snatch crumbs from the table,

the brown mouse wavers.

mandolin player

underneath the cherry tree—

one blossom opens

the stillness of tea

cradled within a blue cup

before the first sip

country road at noon—

the dust from a passing car

settles on my skin

first outing of spring—

three miles the way the crow flies

seven for my feet

first picnic of spring—

red hen gobbling up earthworms

after last night’s rain

by the full moon’s light

reading a Buson haiku—

carp circle the pond