Four tanka

as spring rapidly approaches

            A mild winter, now 
the jolt of morning shattered 
with birdsong, and this
            dim silver sun, a sliver 
lodged behind broken contrails.


*


            It is a form of 
mercy when the rain falls hard
enough to absorb 
            the long night’s piercing silence
in a rush of wordless sound. 


*

            March: a threshold of 
mud before forsythia 
spikes yellow, frantic
            yellow, caution-tape yellow 
around vacant parking lots.


*

            Might as well be spring.
The drunkards in my building 
gather in the shade 
            of the alley—their shaded 
speech sinking into blue dusk.