Tanka
Now That the
Leaves Have Gone
last glimpse of the
lime kiln
bathed in blue light
no more fire
all that's left are the stones
and those who contemplate them
he cuts fleur de lis
into a mausoleum wall
the nights grow long
as rainwater seepage covers
the late seeded ground
a gun battle
in the dusty streets
of an old western
John Wayne looks so sincere
when he's cleaning up this town
women's rodeo event
she leans into the barrel
taking the final stretch home
our old ranch deserted
now that the leaves have gone
a lull in conversation
after the talk about love
and then about salsa
we've pretty much
emptied the cart
reading Chinese verse
up and down and up and down
my eyes shift to flying cranes
how quickly
the Sunday news disappears
another switch
in the tangram tiles
I can't decide if the monk
should wear a hat
or have dancing feet
a mother ostrich
plucks carefully through
broken egg shells
my pysansky collection
dwindles each year
helicopter ride
over plumes of steam
we circle the crater
to see Mount St. Helen's
re-inventing herself
deepest of green
champion this Isle of Caprice
weaving day into night
the sparkle of faerie dust
in my little girl's dream
