Seven

Seven shots ring out,

seven geese fall near the shore

of the killing pond.

Called

Little brown sparrow,

seven times I called to you,

seven times you fled.

First three, then seven,

and then ten thousand blossoms

on the lemon tree!

rainy winter evening—

still seven more miles to go

until I get home

seven sacred stones

waiting for me to find them

in the mountain stream

seven steps away

from the soldier’s white headstone

room for a fresh grave

dusty umbrella

still leaning in the corner—

seven years of drought