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

 
 
 

As July winds down,
 
the stone Buddha’s lap fills up
 
with empty wind songs.

 
 
 

Deserts I have walked
 
still somehow remember me—
 
stones and dust and thorns.

 
 
 

On the old stone bridge
 
one man waits for another
 
in the pouring rain.