Among the green glades beneath quarry
here i chisel through years.
All day in a perfect cloud among Kita’s shards
shaping our bridge.
Stones made smooth by my callouses, my back stencils their arch.
Three years of cherry blossoms my mat,
chipping at the mountain’s heart.
Each morning I walk with you on the other bank.
Almost now we shall meet atop the river.
At the neighborhood annual egg hunt the kids all talk of who will get the golden egg. My granddaughter was determined and ran past hundreds to look in the far reaches of the park.
in the egg hunt
only two in her basket
one of them golden