Late Spring.
The gently rising breeze
ruffled the fur of the dog
sleeping at the foot of the fence.

Waves of falling flowers
weaved into the clothes of the lovers
walking by under the shadow
of the tree.

By now,
the female lover must herself
be the mother of a girl.

The road is a memory
of a painful parting
marked by the child in the back house
flying a kite high.

Falling flowers wave
in the figure of a butterfly
that leaves a wilted
flower behind.

Far, far away,
is the sound of the river
with sorrowful memories.

The flower sunset
reddens this evening
in the street where I used to
walk with you.

I so miss the figure
of your thinning figure
wracked with fatigue.