in the embrowning

of a single ginkgo leaf

my whole life’s story

An empty pantry—

this too is someone’s story

written on the wind.

Part of your story

will never be told again,

wind on the prairie.

an old, old story—

death’s angel passing over

every bloodstained door

Grove

Autumn afternoon—

a golden story unfolds

in the aspen grove.

Story

I thought the sparrow

had a story to tell me,

but it was the wren.

on Monet’s palette

one water lily opens

my father’s story

the same old story

here today, gone tomorrow—

the cherry blossoms

The story can change—

not every word’s been written

in the book of life.

In monasteries

it is the same old story—

hymns at 3 a.m.