If you think of me in the spring,
think of dogwood petals
in my hair, greener grass
and new beginnings.

If the summer solstice
finds you walking alone
in the garden of the moon,
remember that I'm somewhere
walking alone, too.

If you sing of me,
sing in the fall
in blue flannel and jeans
like the saddest song of all.

And if I pretend to die,
and you pretend to weep,
I promise to do it in the winter
when there are no flowers
to send in your pretended grief.

When the seed
of envy grows
into a big tree,
the fruit is bitter,
and the tea
from the bark
stains your soul
and your poetry.

I'm coming from afar
I tell the woman
the last time I came
I could walk straight to the river
now monsoon mud has made a mess
can only glimpse the river's face
is there still a way on dry feet?

She raises her eyes
no way she says
it's all shrub and slush
but you can have a look at my garden
pomelo and papaya,
gourd and green banana,

I haggle over price
wouldn't settle for less than a bargain

she smiles all the way
succumbs with ease
for the take a bag too she gives.

As I leave her on the falling day
I feel no loss
not finding the river's way.

Winter's amber fire
the ashen woods we burned
wet smoulder of mire
the water and the fire.
Dark ancestral home
nights moon shivering cold
stars fixed or falling
beyond the skies fiery yields
only dying embers
lost in oblivion's field.