Three Poems, Five Haiku & Five Tanka by David Anson Lee

 

Whispering Grove

At the grove’s edge,
sunlight fractures into silver threads,
and the trees whisper
in a language older than memory.

Ferns curl like quiet hands
around fallen trunks,
moss blankets the earth
with the hush of forgotten things.

A raven arcs overhead,
its wings slicing through gold,
calling to shadows that cling to root and stone.

Here I left my childhood,
folded between bark and lichen,
a paper boat in a stream
that only I remember.

The wind carries voices:
deer, foxes, foxglove;
a chorus of green and quiet,
singing in tongues I almost understand.

I press my hand to a gnarled oak,
its skin warm with centuries’ pulse.
I remember laughter,
echoes that vanished
with the turning of seasons.

And I wait,
listening for the song that arrives once,
for the leaf that lands
perfectly at my feet,
a signature from the grove:
I am still remembered.

The Faerie Well

Beneath the old stone bridge,
the pond gathers moonlight,
turning water to silver ink.

I lean close,
my reflection splits:
a younger self,
a shadow with laughing eyes,
waves back.

Dragonflies skim the surface,
tiny propellers of light,
tracing secrets I cannot speak.

The faerie voices, or the wind
through cattails:
chant in ripples.

I dip my fingers,
and the water remembers me:
hands that caught frogs,
hands that held dreams
too fragile for daylight.

A frog leaps,
breaking the spell,
yet silver ink remains,
a mirror of what was
and might still be.

I leave the well
with a pocketful of echoes,
faerie laughter
tucked behind my ribs,
carried home in the soles of my shoes.

Dream-Letter to a Lost Self

I write to you in fragments,
letters torn by dream-wind,
each sentence a leaf
floating across a river I cannot cross.

Do you remember the attic,
where light fell in thin lines,
dust motes spun like tiny galaxies,
and I believed I could catch them?

I carry your voice
under my ribs,
soft as moth wings,
sharp as the first frost.

The mirrors lie.
I see you in puddles,
in candle smoke,
in the pause before the crow caws.

Come back:
not as yourself,
but as the echo
that waits
between sleep and waking,
between tree root and riverbed,
between the world we leave
and the one we almost remember.

Winter Birds Haiku Sequence

Cardinal at dusk:
red against a frozen sky,
quiet as snow falls.

 
Hollow in the oak
cradles a sleeping sparrow,
winter breath of pine.

 
Icicles dripping,
mirrors of the moon’s pale eye,
thrush shakes its wing.

 
Fog rolls down the hill,
crow caws pierce the drifting mist,
ghosts of leaf and frost.

 
Moonlight on the river:
herons glide across glass,
stillness breaks to flight.

 

Twilight Tanka

Evening sky bleeding,
shadows curl beneath my feet,
time slows, then flickers.
A fox pauses, glances back:
my reflection in its eyes.

 
Lanterns in windows,
flicker like distant starlight,
warmth against the dark.
I walk roads of forgotten names,
soft as a whispered prayer.

 
Water laps the shore,
moon mirrors every ripple,
carrying my thoughts.
A heron lifts, wings spread wide,
vanishing into mist.

 
Dusk in the orchard,
apple trees bend, heavy-laden,
scent of rain and soil.
Every step awakens a leaf,
every leaf a memory.

 
Twilight stretches thin,
between breath and dreaming self,
a sigh on the wind.
I fold the day into my coat,
carry it home to sleep.

David Anson Lee is a physician and poet originally from the Pine Ridge Indian Reservation, now based in Texas. His work draws upon the natural world, myth, and the liminal spaces between memory and imagination. He is interested in the interplay of light and shadow, human experience, and the subtle magic of everyday life. His poetry often blends lyrical free verse with traditional forms such as haiku and tanka, exploring themes of nature, transformation, and the echo of past selves. His work has appeared in journals including Right Hand Pointing, Unbroken Journal, The Scarred Tree, Braided Way, Eunoia Review, Ink Sweat & Tears, and Silver Birch Press, among others. David’s poetry aims to linger, to haunt gently, and to invite readers into moments of reflection, wonder, and deep attention to the ordinary and extraordinary alike. He is currently preparing a series of poems and sequences inspired by natural cycles, mythic memory, and the intersections of human and more-than-human worlds.