Beware the fairies on this June eve!
Though Saint John may protect your home,
if you wander into the enchanted forest,
magic, potions and, yes, Love too reigns.
Though that latter course never runs true.
The tympanal clicks in the hottest hours
counting out a song in another language.
One of mating, and not of love,
that I know well and repeat myself
in the five seven of this poem.
Two Haiku by Basho
Nothing in the cry
of cicadas suggests they
are about to die
a single cicada’s cry
sinking into stone
Standing motionless, daylight turns twilight, he watches
her walk into the edge of darkness.
She spoke to him of a love
made from the fume of her sighs.
He, wordless, but for those already spoken.
There are 1440 minutes in a day.
The nurse tells me my heart beats
80 times per minute – 115,200 a day.
So many moments, exacting products of distance
multiplied by the charge of absent love.