Wind

Last day of the month—

the wind wraps a plastic bag

around my plum tree.

Higher

Higher and higher

against the summer solstice

a crow lifts his voice.

The first mosquito,

appearing out of nowhere,

relishes my neck.

First week of summer—

in the old stone Buddha’s lap

a wren feeds her chicks.

Summertime at last!

On the temple gate a monk

splashes fresh red paint.

First day of summer—

melons near the garden wall

fatten in the sun.

20th of June—

a blackbird marks spring’s passing

with a well-worn song

A whiff of Old Spice

returns me to the cradle

of my father’s arms.

Little brown sparrow,

near the purple irises

you have built your nest.

On a fetid street

a boy with three white roses

begs me to buy one.