I am listening
 
to oracles of autumn—
 
deep water, old stone.

 
 

I praise in springtime
 
all the things that can’t be tamed:
 
stone, wind, raven’s wing.

 
 

Lizards, crickets, crows,
 
even the old stone Buddha,
 
welcome Easter Day.

 
 
 

Crimson maple leaves
 
in the old stone Buddha’s lap
 
quickly fade to brown.

 
 
 

a stray white feather
 
in the old stone Buddha’s lap
 
and new-fallen snow

 
 
 

Gloomy autumn day—
 
thanksgiving sticks in my throat
 
like a thorn or stone.

 
 
 

praising in autumn
 
all the things I cannot tame:
 
stone, wind, raven’s wing

 
 
 

This stone in my path
 
will not keep me from going
 
the length of autumn.

 
 
 

Nothing stays the same—
 
pine cones, dog bones, river stones
 
crumble into dust.

 
 
 

field-trip offering—
 
in the old stone Buddha’s lap
 
a young girl’s selfie