Tanka

a misty rain

and the smudge of mountain

paints a little death . . .

you bring me the ocean

cradled within your arms

along this path
a bellbird chimes descant
to my footsteps —
she listens to the way
I sing inside my head

see how time
reshapes my silhouette
cast by moonlight . . .
far away a half moon
rises out of my past

mountain silence,
I will get to hear
the shifts of light . . .
I am well versed in the paths
of your valley mists

the dew drop
hanging still from the leaf . . .
it would not be
had not my own eyes
been tinted by dawn

entering the mist
I become so at one
with mere being
that, with the forming of shapes
and words, it slips away

by autumn light
the flicker of child fingers
shadow dancing beads . . .
a mayfly upon the stream
your words ripple through silence

where are you, old friend?
are you still the twinkling eye?
the echo of words?
I sound out the hieroglyphs
that carve your name into stone