Thunderstorm

midnight thunderstorm—

the sound of pages turning

in an empty book

Empty

Little brown sparrow,

the streets are mostly empty,

except for your song.

With an empty sleeve

the old scarecrow flaps and flaps

at a thieving crow.

In the driving wind

a blackbird struggles homeward

to her empty nest.

window-shopping spree

during after-Christmas sales—

my empty wallet

empty plastic bag

that once contained his ashes—

Dad’s last dance with death

in the temple courts

beggar with an empty bell

filling it with song

waiting for first snow

the last days of November—

an empty duck pond

an empty suitcase

tossed out of a moving bus

now a mouse’s home

torturous journey

into a summer morning—

empty coffee cup