Fire Pearls Tanka Anthology
2006

st. patrick's day—
she notices the green
after the pinch,
her kiss heals the wound
but not the blush



almost full, the moon
draped with a thin cloud
no privacy from the poets
who try to write this love
we share under the willow



the field
and the poet
s i l e n c e
where you once told me
you loved my poems



buried
in low clouds
the steeple
reminds me of the wine
that clouded our judgment



dusk . . .
she walks through a field
of photographs
where she first
kissed my smile



in the parking lot
a black bird
pecks at pecans
along with the black man
who holds a wedding invitation



downtown—
dirt ice sickles hang
from the minivan
we purchased for our
miscarried child



winter sunlight
for a moment sits
on the bench
where we first shared
a moonlit kiss



dead moth
at the edge of the drain
winter still
though it was summer
when you took your last breath



in cold hands . . .
the remnant
of a hymnal
her husband passed down
from his first wife