Unexpected rain
 
on the last day of the month—
 
my neighbor complains.

 
 
 

Overcast morning—
 
I have too many questions
 
for one pot of tea.

 
 
 

Summer afternoon—
 
the quilter stitches a song
 
into her design.

 
 
 

If you need answers,
 
listen to the corn growing
 
under the full moon.

 
 
 

Seven moons ago
 
in a dream I planted corn,
 
hoping it would grow.

 
 
 

With no seeds to sow,
 
I’ll have a barren garden—
 
empty sweet corn rows.

 
 
 

First summer dry spell—
 
petal by petal the rose
 
dismantles itself.

 
 
 

Moonlight in my hand
 
weighs less than a fly’s left wing
 
or a spider’s breath.

 
 
 

Little brown sparrow,
 
at midnight I start waiting
 
for your morning song.

 
 
 

First ripe apricots—
 
quicker than I can pick them
 
they fall to the ground.