furrows in the sand
scooped out by crashing waves;
mother's forehead
thinking of
my mother, her dishes—
Russian nested dolls
steamed buns…
enclosed in the attic
mother's smell
in the attic
autumn moonlight pools...
mother's mooncake
mother and I
stand on Pacific coasts—
the same bright moon
Tanka
white beads of rain
are falling
upon my sleeves
as I touch
my mother's rosary
