In the nursing home
 
I clutch my father’s thin hand—
 
spring melancholy.

 
 
 

Through this morning’s fog
 
I cannot see my plum tree—
 
spring melancholy.

 
 
 

Mexican village—
 
three children learning English
 
practice saying wolf.

 
 
 

From a third-floor flat,
 
the fragrance of hot chocolate
 
trickles down the stairs.

 
 
 

Memorial Day—
 
the first lieutenant’s children
 
weep beside his grave.

 
 
 

Languid afternoon—
 
in his lap the stone Buddha
 
cradles butterflies.

 
 
 

Wind from the mountains
 
flows through my plum tree’s blossoms,
 
then on to the sea.

 
 
 

Into the same urn
 
cradling my father’s ashes,
 
I pour my mother’s.

 
 
 

Unexpected rain
 
sends the children scurrying
 
from their hopscotch game.

 
 
 

If no thistles grow
 
among my sweet pea blossoms,
 
let me be content.