autumn wind —
a butterfly grows
more detached

grinding axes
a sharp tongue rubs me up
the wrong way


the dark underbelly
of a rainbow


in the mist


autumn rain —
as the chatter ceases,
only her breath

cloud-robed moon . . .
it stalks me along
this path


after dusk
purple light rises
from the stream


a cool night —
my daughter's moon flutters
on the fridge


a mute child
finds it for me—
the way back


across the night
we are one


twilight bird!
through the bush a wind
shaping sound

morning mass —
dewfall stirs through
the wine


distant voices . . .
the apparition of night
behind the door


the night agape
with a poem's caesura . . .
light before dawn

stormy night —
the distance between
then and now


night conjugates 'to be'
through the tenses

not so green,
a falling leaf spirals
through its is-ness

being now the am which will have been


wordless night —
rain's sound enters
the pool's depths


autumn dusk —
shadows become all
just like that

autumn rain
a grass blade resonates
within it


mirror mist —
an iceberg drifts
through my eyes

cowering clouds . . .
over the chasm's edge
a dream of flight


casting shadows
tonight's same old moon
doubting me


autumn night —
at the heart of it
this black hole


pastel moon,
sinking into
a daydream


morning mist —
a black swan shapes
its own past

night rain —
older than last year,
the sound


autumn night —
my eyes skim over
an endless sky


silent spring —
stillness hovers
in the wings


shallow stream —
leaf shadows drift
over stones


autumn light —
coolness filters through
butterfly wings


how predictable!
the poet's exclamation
goes on and on . . .
another tanka flounders
under too many syllables


chill moon —
trees rustle the colour
of the wind


stillness —
stained glass fluttering
though the ruins


autumn rain —
concealed in the night,
the moon and me


dead silence —
a falling leaf
enters it

closet moon . . .
a recluse comes out
of hiding


watercolour —
a swollen river muddies
a painted sea


night bird . . .
silence leans into
its cry


tussock mist —
dewdrops rise into
their own


reclusive spring —
sinking back to its source,
a twisting eel


autumn's end —
the moon pierces my doubts
with its light


tadpole jar —
the long day's escape
into dreams


weaving through
the intoxication of light,
pilgrim moths


fallen fig
the flower within


straight jacket . . .
within a chrysalis
flitting dreams

the death throes
of homesick invaders:
leaf debris


to restrain the moon,
I lose sleep


autumn deepens . . .
too much to linger with,
moon on the lake