drought
the sound of the cat grooming
wakes me

earthquake
the orange tree drops
its scent

starlit night —
coolness settles
in my shoes

morning fog
a dark pine shape
sheds its crows

leaves on the river —
too old to call myself
orphan

insomnia
the cat
kneads my hair

apples picked
and the casket chosen —
lingering sunset

shooting star . . .
      the young girl wishes
            for a white horse

autumn rain
having just said I love you
into a phone

still wanting
to fly    these feathers
of the dead owl