Last night a line appeared,Unbidden, unsigned;
It had eight memorable
Syllables. I'll keep you,
This is about the green miraculous trees,
And old clocks on stone towers,
And playgrounds full of light
And dark blue uniforms.
If writing a poem could bring you
Into existence, I'd write one now,
I recognize my father's wooden skin
The sun in the west lights up his bald bones
I see his face and then his broken pair of shoes
His voice comes through, an empty sleeve.
Lakes do not happen
Only in geography.
I know one with a Japanese garden
And a limited zoo; it is surrounded
He smoked a cherry-wood pipe, knew all about cannas,
And deplored our lack of a genuine fast bowler.
My uncle called his wife Soft Hands.
His eyesight failed him,
But in his soldier's hands,
Still held like a sword,
Was the mirror of couplets.
The next one will come from the air
It will be an overripe pumpkin
It will be the missing shoe
The dog barks and the cat mews,
The moon comes out in the sky,
The birds are mostly settled.