Three tanka

for a false spring

            It’s how the mountain 
hangs there, in rags of cloud or 
haze: ghost shapes shiftless 
            in blue winter air verging 
on the mania of spring. 


*

            There are afternoons 
when all thought is lost to song
—the vibratory 
            pull of God, this ceaseless reach
within any living thing.


*

            In an empty church
in the middle of the day, 
dark but for stained glass
            flooded with sun, a prayer 
held in the breath in my hands.