Morning garden speaks,
No news like daily rushes,
  .  .  .  Throngs of thrushes.

She left in springtime,
White globes of daisies explode—
What is left of me.

Birds gather on tree,
Innocent as morning sun—
Cat bleats by window.

With every year that I age,
        My mind grows two,
    Maybe that's why,
              I used to love you,
                               .......
             *And you used to love me too.

I wake to alarm—
Under sink pots, pans banging,
Breakfast time for cat.

One last winter walk—
Little clouds falling all round,
Snowfields between us.

Novice, heed my diction—
The learned, the schooled, the politic,
Are but fools with conviction.

Arbiter of sun—
The dogma of run on days,
White, seductress moon.

Snowy egrets, pure,
Stoic, white statues of grace,
Digging in the muck.

In the briar patch—
Little birds circle and chirp,
  .  .  .  Even sun confused.