The first week in the first year of the plague,
when we told ourselves there was no plague,
the flowers were more than willing
to confirm our opinion.
‘Tis wealth enough of joy for me
In summer time to simply be.
we wriggled and followed
the path upstream,
coigned in its armbends, whinsill, lime,
humped heather, deer grass
As a child
I combed black rocks of a jetty
prying starfish from pools
shadow seeks shadow,
then both leaf
and leaf-shadow are lost
He has flown headfirst against the glass
and now lies stunned on the stone patio,
nothing moving but his quick beating heart.
bouquets of cicada brides whose courtship
made the sky sing so in May.
The wedding music stopped, these are left,
to be caught by maidens in seventeen years.
Consider the hummingbird
How like the mind it is
The soul is hungry in spring, and there is only the crisp, silent air to feed it.
Quietly, though. The sort of view
people look at and say awesome
while taking pictures of their faces
with their phones with nature scenes
Some day, when trees have shed their leaves
And against the morning’s white
The shivering birds beneath the eaves
Have sheltered for the night,
We’ll turn our faces southward, love
On the road by the arena,
puddles fill ditches
and flaxen rushes wave
in March rain.
Here is an example of a traditional fixed form borrowed from Vietnamese folk poetry.