Tanka from Footsteps in the FogThe following are my twenty-one tanka from Footsteps in the Fog (Foster City, California, Press Here, 1994), a book I edited and published that Sanford Goldstein, in his review for Albatross IV:1,2, Autumn–Winter 1995 (page 233), referred to as “bringing together that contrapuntal diversity of the unexpected.” You can also read my introduction from the book.
the rose you gave me has dropped all its petals to the windowsill— overnight, I did not hear the rain as each petal fell
all my books collect dust except the one of love poems you gave me that day when the spring rains kept us indoors
still fluttering in the mountain wind, a thousand paper cranes hung on the pine by your window
waking from my dream of you to gaze out through the window— I cannot tell, this morning if the distant peaks are whitened by clouds or by snow
beneath the lilacs the April wind ripples the pond— in every petal the curve of your cheek
when I touch this leaf curled, once red, now brittle I wonder where you are and if you, too have seasons
tonight I had hoped you would sleep with me and inhale the freshly laundered starchiness of my sheets
a leafy willow brushes our window— after undressing me she soaks her hands in hot water
morning sun warming our sheets . . . for a moment as you slide your body down, your nipple in my navel
a snail has left its delicate silver trail on my book of love poems left out on your porch overnight
perhaps I dream to much of you— but, for all the world that summer cloud is the shape of your face
so far the distance between us, yet how easily the mourning doves fly above this prairie
this cold lonely night without you, with no chance of seeing you again, how I wish I could turn off the moon
so much still to say as I hang up the phone . . . all I can do is listen to the pigeon’s coo outside my window
so lonely again this night . . . the moonlight spills over the levee toward your street
compared to broad night the darkness of your love withheld is a deeper darkness, still I long for you for the cold frost of dawn
on this hillside once were wildflowers— their blooms are now gone hidden with our footprints by layers and layers of snow
so far apart yet tonight as we sleep we meet again in our dream
for now the roses bloom, but tomorrow when their fragrance has gone, will you still remember me and my poem?
like a songbird released from the bounds of a cage I dance in the light released from old love and yet . . . and yet . . .
at last we depart after lingering in embrace— the echo of your footsteps in the fog
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