Over the reeds

the moon sickle -

stiller yet

Dawn -

the reeds hail

the wind

Warm summer wind

through the empty plum tree -

home alone

Monday morning -

the spot where their kids lounged

on our sofa

Sunday morning -

the spots where their dog lay

in our garden border

The flowers

rearranged in their vase -

a better world

On the long branch
over the compost heap
the last plums

Reflected

in the roof of the hearses -

the empty heaven

Dusk -

the field of sunflowers

blooms on

Just turned this room

from a one fly- 

to a no-fly zone

The white heron

perfectly poised on

its reflection

After a rainy night
this clean washed world
for her birthday

Nothing moves but

this drop of sweat on my back -

summer heat

In these eastern fields

two.hundred.ninety.eight -

our lonely planet

The scent of roses

and the smell of cigars -

park bench

Looking up

my mouth filled with juice -

plum harvest

In the wheat

the spots that were lost

in translation

I will
never leave you -
his wound

Incense floating out

through the open window -

not a sound returns

A sea gull

with a sandwich -

school lunch break

Drama queen -

on the broken flower

a butterfly

Playing in tuxes

leaving in a clunker-

jazz musicians

At the park bench

their two walkers

side by side

For the time being

there are only rain drops

in the grapevine

High Noon -
weeds returning my gaze
unblinking

Bells tolling

and frogs croaking -

Sunday morning

Through the open window

to the flower vase and back -

a butterfly

Smiling

from beneath the bird shit -

the buddha

After the funeral

with granddad's encyclopedia

to the charity shop

She comes down the stairs

and goes back up right away-

new shoes

And time and again

this one little bird

interrupts me