Not IK.  A Tanka sequence


Beside the willow,
I watch the burbling stream
dancing over rock.
A lone leaf caught in water
twirls once, and is swept away.

Somewhere, a quail calls,
plaintive, searching for others,
hidden by tall grass.
Looking up, I search for her,
but see no sign of movement.

I remember spring,
when we walked along the stream
and the grass was green.
Now the grass is brown and dry
and I am walking alone.

Will you remember,
I wonder, in your own walk,
days of spring sunshine,
the promise of might have beens
that were never meant to be?