I remember tiny things picking up a burnt match
from a floor wondering who threw it there.
A May day in St. Malo, I saw an old man crying
streaks of tears down rumpled chin.
Shy bluebells lost amongst tall trees, yet they
made me think of prayer wheels in Tibet.
Glow of coal in the grate, it was early morning
and the road outside was frosty white.
A summer night up north I was waiting for night
Wednesday, November 23, 2011