Poetry

The trees stand proud along the street,
Leaves murmur summer's hushed retreat.
A pack of children laugh and play,
Brown, ochre, crimson at my feet.

The shadows lengthen, stretched and gray,
And smother warmth that tried to stay.
From every branch, old light is torn,
As autumn drains the day away.

Late crickets sing as dusk is born,
The air turns brittle, edges worn,
It speaks of seasons long gone by,
Each fading branch bends low to mourn.

What's loved will fade, though still we try,
To hold the fleeting hours that fly,
A fleeting hue that stains the sky,
Till memory dims, and so do I.

Grandpa's old truck,
Mud sucking at the tires,
His eyes squinting at the ruts ahead.
The scent of wet earth filled the cab
Morning light pressed through the canopy
gold and orange,
A glowing tunnel through the waking woods.
At the end of the road,
light.
He pointed at the light and smiled.
We didn't say much.
Sometimes, I wish we had

The rock holds me,
a speck over an endless emerald sea.
Mountains undulate like wild waves,
warm gold in the valley between.
The sun reaches out its fingers
and runs them through the firs and pines.
Even a speck knows,
he is found.

Tall Ones backed out of my Small Woods,
I watched them drop the catch of last night's hunt.
Cold prey doesn't squirm.
The Small Woods settle after they leave,
back to the stillness.
It unsettles me.
I should hear my prey,
scurrying through the underbrush—
There is none of that.
Stillness in my Small Woods,
and the No-Sky that keeps me here.
Here.
The Tall Ones brought me here
the night the wind turned.
I was on a hunt,
the sky split open,
a white-hot flash.
The ground came up.
Only darkness.
Great hurt tore through my Wind-Catcher
when I tried to move it.
From my stump, I stretch out,
no more pain but one feels different, tighter.
Wind finds me,
nothing follows.
I tilt my head, there—
just beyond the No-Sky,
my Home.
My Wind-Catcher in the air
and the squirm of warm prey
in my Catch-Hooks again.

Just beyond the plexiglass,
Orangutan enclosure.
Mr. George sat on his haunches,
reddish-brown fur
dirty, matted.
He slowly rocked back and forth.
Gawkers came to his window.
With crossed arms,
he stared directly at me.
Our gazes met.
Those eyes,
forward-facing,
set close.
Black-brown.
No white.
Mr. George blinked and let out a grunt.
Rising slowly, he walked away.
He did not look back.

Sunrise over a Tokyo suburb,
quiet winter day.
A lone man walks, unhurried
    down
        narrow
            side
                streets.
His head down, brow furrowed,
hands in his pockets.
He pauses at the corner,
looks up —
lets the cold sun find his face.
Sigh.
The man looks down
and turns
    out
        of
            sight.
Just another Japanese statistic.