My Tanka in Woodnotes

this cold lonely night

without you, with no chance

of seeing you again,

how I wish

I could turn off the moon

#16, Spring 1993

a snail has left

its delicate silver trail

on my book of love poems

left out on your porch

overnight

#17, Summer 1993

so lonely

again this night . . .

the moonlight

spills over the levee

toward your street

#18, Autumn 1993

still fluttering

in the mountain wind,

a thousand paper cranes

hung on the pine

by your window

#19, Winter 1993

tonight only a pair of doves

has come to my window’s shelter

and beside my still-made bed

I have watched

the raindrops fall

#20, Spring 1994

I tell her I grow old

have a paunch and need new clothes

that the wild geese have flown

and winter is approaching

—my mother laughs

#21, Summer 1994

trimming my nails

on a summer afternoon,

I think of you—

yesterday you told me

you just cut your hair

#22, Autumn 1994

words do not come

for you

on your passing

till the first warm day

      the blossoming plum

#31, Autumn 1997