July afternoon—
Lily's tongue
the color of her snow cone.
Sunlight warms
the black cars
in the cemetery.
Window-shopping in Osaka—
hard to believe
you once lived here, Buson.
In the zinnias,
the hummingbird's
on a bender.
Moonlight on the river—
Thirty-two years and still
I don't know how to say it.
Looking back
across the field—
our footprints filled with water.
Matthew Thorburn
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/thirty-two-years-2/
