On Thanksgiving Eve
 
a homeless woman beds down
 
near the temple gate.

 
 
 

In the rose garden
 
an old woman stops to pray
 
near the yellow ones.

 
 
 

Near the bananas
 
a woman pinches some plums
 
to see if they’re ripe.

 
 
 

We exchange small talk,
 
the woman downstairs and I,
 
as she keeps sweeping.

 
 
 

Autumn afternoon—
 
an old woman shakes her cane
 
at a mocking crow.

 
 
 

A drunk woman sprawls
 
in a moonlit alleyway—
 
spring melancholy.

 
 
 

Parting the curtains,
 
the woman across the street
 
spies on her neighbors.

 
 
 

The homeless woman,
 
shifting in her cardboard box,
 
startles a field mouse.

Lost

 
 
 

On a snowy bench
 
an old woman sits, weeping
 
for all she has lost.

Box

 
 
 

passing the long night
 
in a washing machine box—
 
the homeless woman