Will you dog my steps
 
if I take the mountain path,
 
wind from the valley?

 
 
 

An empty pantry—
 
this too is someone’s story
 
written on the wind.

 
 
 

Winter evening rain—
 
a blackbird keeps on flying,
 
bent on getting home.

 
 
 

Five backyards away
 
I hear a desolate dove
 
calling for its mate.

 
 
 

Yellow butterfly,
 
why do you flit in and out
 
of my winter dreams?

 
 
 

Morning, noon, and night
 
I heat the kettle for tea—
 
winter solitude.

 
 
 

To a rusty nail
 
one thin strand of spider silk
 
clings tenaciously.

 
 
 

Buffeted by wind,
 
a crow on its homeward way
 
steers a crooked course.

 
 
 

Winter afternoon—
 
smoke rising from a chimney
 
scents the falling snow.

 
 
 

With no umbrella,
 
a father and daughter walk
 
in the freezing rain.