Tanka

                                                                      REMEMBRANCE I

 

                                                                      a lone old woman—

                                                                      dried leaves swirling

                                                                      around her feet;

                                                                     she looks in my direction,

                                                                     and you return from a long way

 

                                                                      a bite in the wind—

                                                                      her hand lifts to secure

                                                                      her ruffled hair;

                                                                      from somewhere in memory

                                                                      you tell me to button up

 

                                                                       snow by morning—

                                                                       the old woman tightens her belt

                                                                       and shudders;

                                                                       I move to help her along,

                                                                       but she's lost in the shadows

 

                                                                       REMEMBRANCE II

 

                                                                       October's chill—

                                                                       from the old man's window

                                                                       leaves dying slowly,

                                                                       a beginning race with time

                                                                       and the weather

 

                                                                       all night the rain

                                                                       and the knocking wind—

                                                                       he speaks in whispers

                                                                       and waits for a morning

                                                                       that doesn't come

 

                                                                       clearing skies—

                                                                       the dull thud of damp earth

                                                                       on the coffin;

                                                                       how can a hundred and six years

                                                                       be confined in so small a space?
Ribbons, 2007