Last day of the month—
 
a pathway lies before me
 
that I cannot see.

 
 
 

Early morning rain—
 
all my plans evaporate
 
as a desert stream.

 
 
 

Early morning rain—
 
can that explain the reason
 
for the crow’s dismay?

 
 
 

Step by step I climb
 
each hill standing in my way—
 
the journey lengthens.

 
 
 

the apricot tree
 
awaits its winter pruning—
 
blackbird winks at me

 
 
 

languorous breakfast—
 
taking two hours to savor
 
each morsel, each sip

 
 
 

Winter afternoon—
 
near a bend in the river
 
fishers try their luck.

 
 
 

Midwinter morning—
 
the hotel’s breakfast buffet
 
runs out of bacon.

 
 
 

Zero Fahrenheit—
 
we bundle up in woolens
 
for a woodland walk.

 
 
 

Midwinter morning—
 
an old man with a prayer wheel
 
spins it in the park.