Little brown sparrow,

if I could speak your language,

we’d chat heart to heart.

Desire

in a photograph

plum blossoms my heart desired

forty years ago

Song

The wren in my heart,

building a nest for its young,

sings a fertile song.

to quicken his heart

one yellow chrysanthemum

pinned in her black hair

My grandfather’s watch—

not a tick for fifty years,

yet my heart keeps time.

three weary pilgrims

losing heart along the way—

a whiff of lotus

on the second day

after she decides to leave

mice gnawing her heart

blue ceramic bowl—

its emptiness is enough

for the grateful heart