to stand as poet
or to fall on
the sword of call
one must decipher
the script on blade
”translator”
the words are reflective
what say you
what do you
the poet poets
a parrot of ways
this story, this
sword, drawn
from the sheath
water masks (miyoji)water is
a mutable
spirit
moving worlds
with her tidal
dreaming
she wears her
many faces
each day
late winter bloomssilver roses bloom
early on the old Mule's fence
beneath the Snow moon
cyclesdeath is a process
to process
it was never
about always staying
I am in mud
sprouting shoots
reaching sunlight
and falling through
and as always
I always do it all again
pressed realityI tried to press these flowers
into pages of poems
but pages will rot away
and the blooms
will still bloom
as and when blooms may
sunny daya warm sunny day
mid-fall remembers summer
but it cannot stay