Where does one belong? The stretching
of song fills window and sparrow.
From dark springs come rain-flowers.
Two pure rocks in chaste snow.
The mind or heart leaves a steady blow.
Blue in black branch, red brambles
leaving. Rusting. Day leaving.
And what about the snow-freckled river?
Hushed imaginings brush white path.
My passage waited, pink dogwood
having no need for euphony
or menial sentiment. Then
I left. Strange. Autumn.
A slash of cloudy gown.
Steed slowed. Hallowed.
MARCH 2008