..6....7....8..

after the joy

like us all 

the flat stone sinks

In its own time

being very still 

the coffee grows cold

Lost in thought

the dancer waits 

to be paid

Naughty boys

long since gone

running away from the parkie

Sitting in the garden

this self

discards Dogen's writings

clouds

follow the waves

and their own shadows

Holes in a hosta

bird singing

no slugs