Sunday, January 28, 2007

Fire Pearls Tanka Anthology

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

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

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