doesn't skin form by thinking        of the shadows it will hold within

coffin-flat field in ohio      slowly grows a crow

can faces i've never seen before        hear the rain inside my dreams

can you imagine the storm within my boat that exhausted every wind

to guide the light that is light        was life

leaf falls to find the moon :: mind

the only forest we never felled        living within my leaf

a fly on my wall all winter

why hasn't dawn flown away like a crow

when eyes are closed        can moonlight flood the cave

what was once stripped leafless        dark beside my bed

turn the shadows over until your first snow falls out

to search each day for sun is my asylum

watching leaves fall into clouds :: i could almost live again

to find out how much moon i have :: it snows

a silent drum :: a darkened lamp :: more starlight than i can use

my work is drenched :: breaks stone into mist

could the origin of leaves be autumn        and helpless falling

does the light of today remember its birth

last drops of rain in hands of a breeze        stirring what others need

how does one keep company        with a rose from the end of the world

for love of the house        our table is small

let us kneel down with mountains        repairing the wind

serenity within the seed :: tell me everything

when i die        to whom shall i leave        the one who lived here before

who will hold the ocean close as it dies

what is the name for shedding a leaf        and having no age

washing the waves with my skin :: and nothing

shadow is the shortest route        to unexpected light

will weeds grow above or within my grave

some try to hide from their mountain by pushing the sky away

haiku is the heart

the whole of the earth becoming more perfect :: entering the sea before us

in the milk behind your eyes :: live those who have one wing

i look from the monarch without her wing :: into the mystery of sky

night
i lie silent
the rain to hear my heart

what i've made in life also dreams

there is a moon in the window where you open

the moon
when we sleep
is the cold

if you find a ripe moon on the ground :: may it happen to me

a dark hand reached through you
brought birth
in

i was child
and a silver craft fell home
into nobody else

stones are slow
slower than me
turning into breeze

our eyes open in the afternoon
we see dusk
through falling snow

i miss the world

            mountains lost and lost

                        the ark unable to land

when i separate from my hands,

            said the water,

                        whose journey will be done

one grain of rice

                        (for many bowls)

the guest left behind

crossing the river above the trees

                                                            —

                                                                        my flood raised to feather

late in our moon

and no

one

asleep in the barn

through ice works

            on maple buds—

                        —long walk to the sun

many times of being lost

            in place

like a lake between the waters

a child's cup of moonlight was the thread of my returning

something eternal

            worn down

                        to a man who believes he’s sleeping

my flaws drifting from stone to stone—becoming the white sky

waking the mountain to strike a small bell