While the little son
climbs up the ladder
in sheer joy of act,
Father envisions
Son’s glory on the horizon.
Son’s foot slips,
Father closes his eyes,
fighting not to think of
Son’s misfortune.
Son tumbles down,
Father’s heart skips
a beat or two. He mutters,
My son, you can be
whatever
makes your life easier.

©by Byung A. Fallgren

Flow of the melting snow,
the broken water of
Nature’s womb,
before the arrival of spring,
one of her many memories.

Stream knows the footprints within,
the winter hunters’ scent on the
rock, his cigaret butt wedged
between the stones, she mimics
the hunters’ voices.

Doe he’d let go rests by the shrub,
expects to give birth soon, The
stream knows the footprints
within, the reticent keeper of
the story they left behind.

©by Byung A. Fallgren

Removing the cracked
concretes on my driveway, he
mocks the cooing dove,
do do doo, do do doo.
Might he think:
what will I do tomorrow?
This isn’t what I should do
on the weekend,
while my friends fishing,
hiking with their girl friends.
He kicks the concrete piece then
hums. I almost hear him singing:
I work at the bottom
today, I may do the same thing
tomorrow but at the top,
a contracter, encouraging
the young men like me,
‘you are building for
tomorrow formidable
as concrete.’
Dove recites the words
as the young man hums.

by Byung A. Fallgren

Her stay brief, yet
brightens the corner
where even the
sunbeam
can’t reach,
absorbs the
winter vestige of
yesterday’s gloom,
quite an achievement
in such a short time,
one blushes for
underachievement.
She whispers,
“All differ depend on
your perspective.”

by Byung A. Fallgren

Little bells and
soft umbrellas,
sweet music bounces
among the tender leaves,
brightens the lackluster soul.

© by Byung A. Fallgren

When we were little
you fell on the icy pond,
wouldn’t get up, crying.
My word, I won’t help you.
It pricks me even now,
the premonitory word,
now that I live in the far land
where everyone wants to go
yet I haven’t helped you
make your home near me.
I’ve mailed you an amethyst
bracelet, a token of my love.
Your response, balmy spring.
Sisterly love transcends
the amethyst bracelet, sweeter
than the aroma of lilac bloom.

©by Byung A. Fallgren

For whom the apple tree blooms
on the empty homestead?
Not you or me but
the perished spirits by the tornado of
yesterday singing in the wind.

©by Byung A. Fallgren

We settled down
between the mossy
rocks where
animal droppings
lay beneath
our cones and twigs,
envisioning
the new saplings

in spring, hopeful
they’ll reach sky someday,
let the stars snuggle
on the tree tops,
swinging in the
pine scented breeze–
dream blooms
in the humble milieu.

©by Byung A. Fallgren