July afternoon—
Lily's tongue
the color of her snow cone.

Sunlight warms
the black cars
in the cemetery.

Window-shopping in Osaka—
hard to believe
you once lived here, Buson.

In the zinnias,
the hummingbird's
on a bender.

Moonlight on the river—
Thirty-two years and still
I don't know how to say it.

Looking back
across the field—
our footprints filled with water.