Shawl

Bitter spring morning—

over her bony shoulders

she drapes a thin shawl.

Blues

Sunday morning blues—

a cup of bitter cocoa

as the spirit moves

drinking from the cup

that I drank from years ago—

this bitter water

in the castle keep

a starved and bitter pilgrim

praying for release

the flower seller

has no red chrysanthemums—

I sip bitter tea

handful of ashes

tossed into the bitter wind—

what’s left of my dad

Someone else’s hands

brewed this morning’s pot of tea—

bitter every sip.

in my cup

yesterday’s coffee

bitter dregs