Weather

Soft pale gold sunrise
Falls in spindles across seas
That are filtering
Silent through my closed fingers
Casting droplets on the grass.

Skyward, grey wisps brew
Rolling waves of white thunder
You don’t see the rain
Looming there with frigid stare
And anxious crows departing.

Oxbow Lake

Two rivers flow
Apart from one another
And the one
Dries around to form an
Oxbow lake.

Stranded in a sea
Of rice-infested land
To stand
Time, and the lake
Is alone.

One river flows
Apart from where the other
By chance
Stranded an oxbow lake
But meets –

Does it spit
Rejecting water that tastes
Too familiar?

Rainy Haiku

I
Long trunks intertwine
to lift gentle canopies
of leaves and cool shade.

II
Light rain is crackling
spattering against the stone
where moss grows, silent.

III
The grey sky grumbles
but parts the clouds, so pale light
can hum in the air.

Flute Song

Nowadays plans filter through
The fingers, trickling water
Into a lap of grass,
Quieting the thoughts
With fluidity, with change,
Snaking away into the hills.

A flock of sheep disperses
Like fickle clouds,
Seasons, and blossoms floating
And a dear stranger
Between blades of grass
Bluish shadow hovering,
Fades inwards and away.

Mental Images

I
Waking blooms from trees
on the fringe of a blue sea
which slumbers in foam.

II
Snowy mountain caps
Stand among white fluffy clouds
Blotting out sunlight.

III
Stars flit in and out
of the wide night sky view, while
fireflies rise up.

Earth and Sky

I wanted to grasp
hints of the sunshine
behind blue-stained glass;
my fingers closed on dead clouds
which lingered, though the sun died.

You stood on the bridge,
my love, hands spread to the sky
so needlessly.
My hands kissed the earthen cliff;
my fingers rooted in soil.

The Clouds

Clouds – cupping the landscape from above
like gentle hands,
soft spreads of cottony light
and dollops of complementary shades
lavender on purple, rose on red:
dappled droplets of colour drop.
Artful, in a way human hands are not.
They curl in wisps over us now –
the Clouds.

Human Beings are Born from the Trees Upstream

Human beings are born from the trees upstream;
Blue skies bleed into just as blue a stream —
O still, there are things cutting off the stream.

I still long for the humming bees upstream,
Silver-veined wings, dipped in light, a stream.
Human beings are born from the trees upstream.

Drifting down the soft meandering stream,
River reeds weave together, earthen stream;
Blue skies bleed into just as blue a stream.

From the craggy cheeks of sameness – tears stream,
But more so in difference: striped-tapes stream,
O still, there are things cutting off the stream.