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

three words from her pen

may last seven centuries

or seven seconds

first outing of spring—

three miles the way the crow flies

seven for my feet

in the village square

seven unruly pigeons

squabbling over crumbs