Alone

After a long walk I come into the garden. Under the trellis the shade has the quality of hands in a dance–I can’t explain this. I sit down and think about the past. I can’t explain this either. I want a renewal of love and the air is thick with the scent of roses. 

 

I know nature doesn’t care for me. “The pine tree,” says Basho, “another thing that will never be my friend.” 

 

But love is sidelong, insistent, other worldly, and the pigeon grass shines.