reddening apples —
her palette
still loaded with color

an empty chair
in the poet’s circle
words of love

blue September sky —
the wordless things
we want to know

death of a friend
loss of her creative soul
inflames, inspires mine

her yellow painting —
above bifocals, her dark eyes
even brighter

no matter how short we may fall . . .
my image of you
shall always stand tall

Sometimes I think . . .
you would answer the phone
if I were to call

warm earth
the gardens
it makes

moonless night —
in the harvested wheat field
i, too, am empty

the quiet strengths
of a gentle leader —
colors that will not fade

exchanging haiku stories
we forget we live
on different continents

One breath
the distance between
I am and I was

rereading the renga
we wrote a decade ago . . .
my name: her name

windstorm —
the garden stripped of
her bright colors

there is no ending —
only the change
of seasons

twilight lingers
the thousand echoes
of her wordless things