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an'ya
humid night—
bit by a mosquito,
I don’t like it! but . . .
being a mother myself,
it’s mine to understand
love’s direction
how shall I write it? . . .
fickle
as the weathervane
in a spring crosswind
what is my life
but bittersweet chapters
deeply colored—
yet the bird knows enough
to avoid poison berries
golf course
the whiteness of swans
on its turf
my father always said
it was his church of choice
the symmetry
of this peppered moth
I think about
all the times I’ve been
unremarkable
junk yard:
the spectrum of rain
in motor oil
living rainbows under
every wrecked auto
spitting rain
a quick pause to toss
her bouquet
plucked out of midair
by the next bride-to-be
murky pond
there’s still one half of it
I’ve never seen
what secrets lie beneath
the surface of our love?
just kids back then,
shadow-boxing against
the churchyard wall . . .
bright with passion flower vines
we never once noticed
an'ya is editor of Ribbons: Tanka Society of America Journal, and of the bi-annual haiku and tanka journal moonset, whose unique presentation and format features commentary on every poem appearing in each issue. A frequent award-winner, an'ya's poetry is well-known throughout the world.
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