Thursday, March 19, 2015

Spring tankas

I haven't been writing much poetry lately. That needs to change. In the spring I pick up tanka, and whirl with whatever sounds and syllables arrive.

An empty bowl carves
a curved space from the hollow
at rest in the dark
waiting to be filled with warmth
of broth that’s yet to simmer.

I work through knotted
lilac shadows of morning
cast across your frame—
horizontal memory
of compartments somewhere else.

With pink pliant lungs
I breathe hexagonal breaths
probably my last—
before a window closes
on the final winter’s night.

Nine o’clock arrives
and guttering sun goes dark
against the city—
the sudden internal spark
of life ignites our windows.

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