The first gray light of a winter morning.
Walking among my fruit trees
I cry for my dead son.
I then scatter those tears
Like seed across the cold ground,
But the birds won't even go near.
Saturday, February 23, 2019
Li Po, Hanshan - I keep their poems handy. After hundreds of years passing by The poetry still shines like new for me, Everytime I open t...
Opening my front door, the past Blows in, uninvited. I open the back door, So it can blow back out again as well. No past, no future, ju...
A windy, wet day And I see my son through an opening In a stand of pines Two years since the funeral James 16 May 2019