Sunday, April 17, 2011


The leaves of the basho
lie curled and brown;
the laughter of the plum tree
is silenced.

Red sun rises on broken city,
tsunami swallows earth.

News of the death of the last geisha,
an omen--
songs of gaiety
no longer to be sung.

Black Crow weaves his tapestry
in pearl grey threads of mourning;
Black Crow weaves his tapestry
in threads of watery grief.

A pale dawn
and far in the distance
a lark sings the
memory of spring to come.

Hope is to be found
and lost
in the transience of