We drove to Provence/ To capture Cezanne/ To find impressions/ In the landscape/ Through fields of lavender

Each memory is a blueberry clinging onto the bush./ They hang in no specific order, each one containing/ a flavorful

I do not have to be good./ Baseballs crack windows,/ teacups spill, saucers shatter, umbrellas/ splinter in

And again it is night/ spreading its black light/ over the mountains,/ over the pale roads/ that have lost their way

Abandoned cars/ lined both shoulders// Tourists afoot/ kept on crowding// So we traded/ postcard Forest

Words without ink on paper cloud—/ the poem at the edge of the world.// It is the place where land sinks to sea

The world smelled of petrichor/ The day after the rain/ After flood warnings and drowning hearts

Southering sun, briefer days/ northern Siam/ earth and trees fade/ to umber and gold,/ taking flight/ leaves flee

We see things only that we want to keep. Look/ at this sparrow, this spotted owl, this dove/ with the blue-black

High hills I climb/ to give sky a near stargaze/ lying wide awake all the night/ I rove my eyes aloft over distance

Heron fixes its solitary gaze on the low tide./ Osprey slows, pivots and dives./ Kingfisher chitters and white

Three corners to join,/ three aspects to share/ - what was, what is, what will still be// Three hopes to evaluate

Deep look of a mysterious woman/ Illuminates the path/ Of a lonely man/ While walking towards the/ Eternity./ Look

Before developers built houses/ Orchards existed here. Fifty years later/ Someone cut them all down, a

Rivers do not/ Their own water drink/ The sun can’t shine/ On itself, we think/ Trees do not eat/ The fruit that they

The moon beholds the stars,/ Shining pinpoints in a vast distance,/ And smiles knowing that proximity/ Makes

Walking late one winter afternoon,/ I suddenly heard a lovely tune;/ Looking for where the source could be

I am through a superb window – looking./ An angel of feeling awakes in me./ The dreamy oak-trees stand alway

The future is the present/ when it comes./ And the present becomes the past/ with each living breath we take.

After more rain/ than the earth would swallow,/ after more wind/ than the roots could bear,/ do not marvel/ to see