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.

 
 
 

Why do I sit here
 
alone on this old stone bench?
 
Bitter grows the wind!

 
 
 

An old stone lantern
 
in the Japanese garden
 
fills with leaves, not light.

 
 
 

Listen! the cricket
 
in the old stone Buddha’s lap
 
strikes up a new song.

 
 
 

This old stone lantern
 
where a wren once built its nest
 
now holds only dust.

 
 
 

December’s last day—
 
even the old stone Buddha
 
embraces the change.