A forty-knot wind
 
after Memorial Day
 
tatters Old Glory.

 
 

Memorial Day—
 
we hike to the hillside grave
 
to say hi to Dad.

 
 

sitting in the shade
 
marking the passing of May
 
with sweet jasmine tea

 
 

It’s never too late
 
to sit with cherry blossoms
 
in silence, and wait.

 
 

In an old clay pot
 
new white dahlias are blooming—
 
a black phoebe sings.

 
 

On a bright blue day
 
some California poppies
 
have their way with me.

 
 

Someone tell that crow
 
to keep his noisy beak shut
 
during my spring nap!

 
 

On this clear spring day
 
my longing for rain deepens,
 
along with the drought.

 
 

Procrastinating,
 
sipping coffee drop by drop—
 
those spring chores will wait.

 
 

The cherry blossoms,
 
having no more songs to sing,
 
mutely leave the tree.