Stuart Quine

new year's day only the wind comes to my gate

as real as any dream cherry blossom

“Not yet, not yet” says the tumbling beck

drunken moon under stars I stumble home

bolted and chained the way to the mountains

weary of haiku I rearrange the spice jars

at the end of the jetty tasting the salt of my tears

white rice in a white bowl winter sunlight

news of the war beer suds slip down the glass

everything depends on this old bucket left out in the rain

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