A lone table
in a grove of trees.
The sun is shining
upon the richest
of blue skies.
What shall I serve?
Or be served?
What music is playing?
Everyone is there.
Or am I just wondering
why so and so
didn’t show?
How long will we linger?
The sun goes down.
Our feast is done.
We forgot to take a picture
again.
This is what I conjure.
This gray day today will not do Piecing together memories of summer scents and colors connecting the blooms and diving in
It’s Monday morning. Start of a long week, is what I was thinking. But I will scratch that. Just: start of the week, and it will be a good one. There will be texture, and there will be calm. Going to make a list, and keep it rational. I will seek out the texture of things, make time to process and consider, and I will create calm. Here we go (calmly).
An extended run at the theater of Fall. On a cold morning, when the park is mostly empty, especially in its deeper reaches and hidden away nooks of tree groves and patches of leaf strewn grounds, you can walk upon this stage and give a listen to the performances of the past. The curtain may have fallen, but the show must go on, at the theater of Fall.
Comings and goings in a fleeting stretch of a moment on a perfect day.
The ways in which a cold front inspires bridges of reaching, if only for a moment.
A refuge of silence, for the ice, for the wind, and for all those who follow the winding trail and find it.
Updating the site with a photography section. Here’s a photograph from a series (“Wind on Rain Slicked Skin”) published in Former Cactus literary magazine. Check out the new photography section here: jeffreyyamaguchi.com/photography.
A coldest of days
forges a crystal palace
rule lasts a moment
This poem and photograph originally appeared in the literary journal Three Drops from a Cauldron.
Jeffrey Yamaguchi 