How great my sorrow
 
after the white dahlias bloom
 
and their petals fall!

 
 
 

To restore my joy,
 
I praise the shadow maker
 
and the star shaker.

 
 
 

How does it happen
 
that you keep losing your way,
 
yellow butterfly?

 
 
 

Somewhere a stranger
 
also is known by my name—
 
spring melancholy.

 
 
 

Pilgrim of the night,
 
sing! the Full Strawberry Moon
 
bathes your way in light.

 
 
 

Spring melancholy
 
fills the spaces between words
 
as we sip our tea.

 
 
 

The first day of June—
 
an old grey tabby snoozes
 
in the noonday sun.

 
 
 

End-of-May shower—
 
the shovel I left outside
 
wears a shroud of rust.

 
 
 

The poems I make
 
will not last nearly as long
 
as the spring mountains.

 
 
 

Memorial Day—
 
even names engraved in stone
 
can be forgotten.