Spring Rain Conveyed Under The Trees In

A Weathered Skeleton In Windy Fields Of Memory, Piercing Like A Knife.

The Moon Is Brighter Since The Barn Burned.

Farewell, My Old Fan. / Having Scribbled On It, / What Could I Do But Tear It / At The End Of Summer?

Not To Think Of Yourself / As Someone Who Did Not Count -- / Festival Of The Souls.

How Much I Desire! Inside My Little Satchel, The Moon, And Flowers