Last night of the month—
 
by the waxing crescent moon
 
I make my way home.

 
 
 

My father once drank
 
from the cup that I now drink—
 
deepening autumn.

 
 
 

Deepening autumn—
 
the seed catalogs are out
 
and I have big plans.

 
 
 

After Thanksgiving,
 
a freshly raked Zen garden
 
hosts a dead oak leaf.

 
 
 

After Thanksgiving,
 
in a long, narrow garden,
 
one white rose still blooms.

 
 
 

Shorter, colder days—
 
I dream of planting fresh seeds
 
and greeting earthworms.

 
 

Thanksgiving dinner–
 
the circle’s smaller this year,
 
our talk is thinner.

 
 

Windy autumn day—
 
the birches’ frilly gold skirts
 
have been blown away.

 
 

The steady keening
 
from a passing flock of geese
 
empties my fulness.

 
 

Smoky autumn tea—
 
I marvel at the blessings
 
nestling in my cup.