The mice do not know,
 
nor do the stones remember,
 
where they have come from.

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Languid afternoon—
 
a pilgrim pillows her head
 
on a smooth, round stone.

 
 
 

Sizzling afternoon—
 
even the old stone Buddha
 
shifts uneasily.

 
 
 

The tint of this stone
 
and the color of my skin—
 
how alike they are!

 
 
 

so many questions
 
for stones and oaks and blackbirds
 
so great the silence

 
 
 

on the granite stone
 
my father’s name grows fainter—
 
tattered butterfly

 
 
 

Languid afternoon—
 
in his lap the stone Buddha
 
cradles butterflies.