The Empty Bed
In the late afternoon
Clawing at the garden, pulling weeds
She weeps, hearing
Of her neighbour’s husband
Returned
Was it only yesterday, geese
Made their way north
And now, coming back this morning
Noisy migrations of spring
To autumn
Spring
To autumn
Still no news, nobody coming
She knows the reason for chores
Kneeling at her washing stone
Pounding and pounding
Letter to Zian
The road clings to the mountain face
Stones set steeply in regret
My journey from you
Your voice finds its way to me down icy roads
Along the desolate valleys
Snow peaks so far away
I think of the tranquillity in your face
Drinking-songs in spring, gaming all
night
Idle companions
What can I say
The centre of the pine is sap
Not stone
Something between us is postponed
Little birds, looking for their place
Winter is lonely
A full moon may find us together again
I have said my goodbyes
What souvenirs can I offer but these
Tears welling
Reflections in
Late Spring
Oriole chatter carries off my dreams
I dab make-up over last night’s tears
The new moon snags in bamboo slats
The river beyond, hugging mists
Swallows repair their nests
Beaks mud-clumped
Insects stir, sticky pollen flights
Everything to its purpose
I am adrift in my poems, one by one
I watch them
Floating up through the pines
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