A few tonka to round out
the short pieces . . .
A frail flower bends
in springtime breezes over
gray dreams of dust-caked
yesterday and promises
of evergreen tomorrow.
Across a stream where
centuries ago the blood
of regiments had
run lies the shadow of a
tree that had been standing then.
Above the ash-tray
stains of recent intercourse
stands a blue-gray string
of smoke suspended from an
undulating memory.
Touching shadows, I
pass through time and cannot find
the token signs where
I've been but in those shadows
I have touched in passing there.