by James Woodham

comb your hair with wind
let the hills flow through your eyes
sun adorn your skin

wind on the water
wind in my hair and the crow’s 
hollow notes dropping

sun warm on the skin
ears full of the mountain stream
breathing the blue sky

to be free of now
as a bird takes to the air
the future floating

as the mountains wait
for whatever comes along
sun wind rain blue sky 

standing on the sand
for about a hundred years
to be a pine tree

my wife leaves some food
each day before her parents’ bones
graced with a greeting

under buddha’s eyes
tiers of fruit are perfect worlds
of shining surface

priest chanting sutras
endless drone of syllable –
aural opium

these Kyoto streets –
walking down them half my life
always stuck in time

rings in the puddle
everyone who ever lived
raindrops vanishing

two butterflies hanging
on the gently nodding plant
in a swoon of wings

standing in the road
with its beak slightly open
crow seems to question

wings blur the vision
hovering at the flower
hummingbird hawk moth

no way you can know
you’re born to be a butterfly
fat caterpillar

the sky cloud-muffled
a cat gives us a long look
from a safe distance

klansman clad in black
disdaining shows of colour
crow knows he’s stronger

as a tree waits
for the leaves of spring to come
so a poem words

no finer music –
the speech of leaves in the breeze    
birdsong travelling 

sharpness of shadow
on the rock a leaf lifted
from a Chinese scroll

old man puffing away 
as he strolls along wreathed 
in smoke’s sweetness

how the snow blankets 
the mind, muffling and making
a nest of the home

bamboo bent double 
with the weight of all that white
head buried in it

points of light glitter 
wind skimming the pond’s surface – 
March superficial

pale shafts of sunlight
birdsong calibrates the air
the trees cathedral

waves leave glistening 
in the caverns of the ear
desultory lapping

no thought of waste here
sun adheres to every leaf –
golden plenitude

along the moonlit lane
shrilling of the bell cricket –
silver audible

cool wind off the hills
slides ripples through the silver
pathway of the sun

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For previous contributions by James Woodham, please see the striking poems and stunning photography here.  Or here. Or here. Or here. For his previous posting, A Single Thread, see here, and for The Wind’s Word click here.