Number

Twelfth night of the year—

the moon’s gone into hiding,

so I number stars.

Moon

A full moon rising

higher than the temple roof

lights up every street.

One hair on his toe

grows longer as the moon wanes—

the barefoot abbot.

plastic water bowl

cradling summer’s bloodred moon—

old dog drinks his fill

so brilliant the moon

that even the whippoorwill

hushes its calling

rocking the spring moon

in a cradle made of willows—

wizened shaman’s hand

scribbling a few words

on her son’s Big Chief tablet—

haiku for the moon