Five
Tanka
iron hung
high in the temple
a bell
the call of a lost angel
in a new home
one night
a stranger’s hands hold
a glass
joy comes at last from
a vineyard of emeralds
we were not
lovers at the time
yet love
as a third person
moved between us
rowing
the frail boat home
a storm
of wrists and forearms
below heavy clouds
an hour glass
the sands of time pass
thru airport doors
on the soles of hurrying feet
leather luggage with wheels
Jane Reichhold
If you have any comments on
this poem, Jane Reichhold would be pleased to hear
them.
