leaden sky
the sharp angle
of the swallow’s turn

old car graveyard
mama moves her kittens
to the back seat

colors of flowers
I promise the children
she’s in heaven

spring cleaning . . .
she pauses a while
at the bay windows

afternoon shadows
temple stones
stacked and numbered

no man’s land
a boy flies a kite
above rubble

grown wild
the spot where I buried
the last of my pets

funeral flowers
bright pollen staining
the fresh linen

the Aegean
so blue
this wild anemone

bristlecone pine —
older
than our religions