on a night like this
not even the owls have
anything to say
swaying in the wind—
your inconstant heart
in a garden gone to weeds
is the temple of my heart
the whirling snowfall
batters my weary heart with
insistent beauty
Upon the loss of a lover
My life has been a
garden of many flowers,
but I will still grieve
when each blossom falls
and leaves me behind.
The clangor of bells
called me from my seat into
the bright frosty air;
barefoot in the snow I stood
to hear the carol of hope.
The comb she dropped
broke when I stepped on it
by accident;
but I enjoyed
the sound of spite.
The flight of wild geese
across the trackless grey skies
which leaves no record.
Calligraphy of the air
like the thoughts of mortal men.
