The thread in the hand of a kind mother
Is the coat on the wanderer's back.
Before he left she stitched it close
In secret fear that he would be slow to return.
Who will say that the inch of grass in his heart
Is gratitude enough for all the sunshine of spring?

Yellow figures gather as the rains fall.  Single splashes become puddles.  A great Oak stands tall. Sandalwood incense burns. The old monk prays. Images come and go, flashes of the mind. A petite woman slices an apple, then points to a star.  Like the apple, her words are shared: "The truth of nature is everywhere"

The flames rise,
sending smoke
signals.

Tonight I erase
these ink-filled
pages.

Bottle uncorked
words floating
lost in the waves.

Walk the old road:  
ancient ways heal
your pain.

As the coin falls
my wish remains.