In the garden
where the old tree fell
last winter
I buried the memory
of the carving
we inscribed

What we used to say
to each other
had risen too high
for the echo
to find its way
back to us

Though there are still flowers
they’re waiting for shade
and softened rains
that won’t come
for this year’s bloom
or the next

— Jeffrey Yamaguchi

April 2, 2022