Pebble in my shoe—
 
how can such a tiny thing
 
keep me from the way?

 
 
 

With no walking stick,
 
how distant seem the mountains,
 
how narrow my path!

 
 
 

Languid afternoon—
 
a pilgrim pillows her head
 
on a smooth, round stone.

 
 
 

Sunday morning blues:
 
instead of a jolt of joe,
 
insipid decaf.

 
 
 

The old man next door
 
stumbles through the neighborhood,
 
calling to his cat.

 
 
 

fragrant memories:
 
the way your eyes caressed me
 
seven moons ago

 
 
 

Just after daybreak
 
two marauding crows swoop down
 
on the dog’s food dish.