I
bougainvillea
wall of many colors
flames in sunlight
II
carpenter bee
submerges in a flower,
falling to earth
III
frangipani
blossom sits on sidewalk
courting glances

under jungle
creepers, trees, and moss
lost cities wait
one clean edge
of rough chiseled stone
peeks from mound
when we’re gone
something will remain
of us, and not…
I
flat waters
glide wide at the bend,
their might mute
II
boulders stacked
in precarious piles —
yet they stand
III
the palm trees
stand over stone ruins —
upright sentries
IV
a leaning tree
reaches its gnarled, bent trunk
to shade pilgrims
V
strange landscape —
rubble swept into piles
by what hand?
I
a winter moon
is seen clearly between
breath fog plumes
II
starry skies,
through the tent flap,
herald cold’s bite
III
cold slinks in
once sleep has taken hold,
settling in bone
IV
winter midnight —
sunlight, a distant memory,
or so it feels
V
how bright the moon
in the mid-winter sky —
yet, no heat
I
the post-perched bird
remains still, but for its eyes,
which dart about —
below, fish shoot and jink,
thinking the post oddly shaped
II
the mountains reflect
off of that glassy lake
with such clarity;
all know which mountains are true
except for the fishes
III
behind the barracks,
some local women gather
to bath at the well.
he pretends not to look
they pretend not to be seen