With Tulip Trees Blooming All over Our Village by the Lake,
I Open Su Tung P’o’s “The Purple Peach Tree”


It’s so hard to think of death
Around here as everything in the ground is opening into full bloom
Though our sweet old Bartlett tree
Has now been lathed into perfect bowls.
We loved it more than anything else we’d ever want.
First, a summer storm, then next year, quite the same.
I don’t think I’ve ever mourned a tree
As much as our wild untamed white blossomed backyard Bartlett.
The bees would take such leisurely baths in the fall
Making such sweet drinking songs.




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With Spring Road Construction Everywhere in Our Village
I Pause to Read Su Tung P’o’s “On the Siu Cheng Road”


Everyday it’s blowing and blowing.
I cycle through the neighborhoods.
If I look up the sky is
Sometimes cumulus, then cirrus.  All
Our trees are turning green from black.
Blossoms still fall on spring
Green lawns, white fences.
Pools should open Memorial Day.
All the road crews wear
Bright yellow, more yellow than the daffodils
They dig up, taken home
To their wives as bouquets
Of happy love.





In a Waiting Room Overlooking the Lake, I See a Bouquet of May Flowers, and Read Su Tung P’o’s “Begonias”


I bring home a yellow
Hibiscus along with groceries,
Cover it with a see-
Through plastic bag so frost
Won’t steal the blooms at night.
Alone on the porch next to the snow
Shovel, rusting table and chairs,
the raccoons pause before the light
surprises them with blooms and eyes.



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After Seeing White Spring Cycling West from the Lake,
I See Su Tung P’o’s  “Spring” is Our Spring, Too

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Bridal wreaths are blooming everywhere.
The white buttons make beautiful boutonnières.
Spring winds lift the branches into floating air.
Across the city the spirea wave like fronds.
Soon the white disks will float into snowflakes.
How many of us will see this next year?

After a Long Run Along the Lakefront,
I Try to Nap with Lu Yu’s “Phoenix Hairpins” 


For days our kitchen blooms with yellow day lilies.
Wine glasses hang for more cold wine.
Outside, all over the city,
Chrysanthemums are starting to open.  Above us
Clouds turn dark blue into thunderstorms.
Soon the mailman will come carrying
More rejections once again.
I sometimes wonder if I’ll ever
Find what others already see.
What does it matter if everyone
Chatters on about what they’ve just
Done to keep pain
From drifting back in all over again?
Clothes no longer fit the featherweight
I’ve slimmed into but the yellow
Daylilies have opened in our village
Soothing what I can’t do myself.
I’d like to be here
When there’s no more time
To let this ink seep into something
That you might want
As something precious, forever.​