May 12^th, 2024

Little Pines
Poking up from the ground
Barely above my knees,
Already there’s holiness
In their coiled roots.
Though harsh frost has
Whitened the hundred grasses,
Deep in the courtyard,
One grove of green!
In the late night
Long-legged spiders stir;
Crickets are calling
From the empty stairs
A thousand years from now
Who will stroll among these trees,
Fashioning poems on their
Ancient dragon shapes?