cottonwood rattle —
the wordlessness
of his final days

hillside cemetery
all gravestones
face the view

blue sky
the love
I never had

lily of the valley
she hangs her bathing suit
on a branch

cicada song . . .
the slow drift of creek foam
long into the night

summer moon
a willow’s shadow
dapples her grave

biting into cucumber . . .
the mountain wind
touches my cheek

golden sun
a gong resonates
through bamboo

lazy river . . .
drifting toward the equinox
on an inner tube

windows open —
the sound of summer
in all the rooms