Last day of the month—
 
perhaps the river will thaw
 
sooner than we think.

 
 
 

Walking home alone,
 
a woman in a red coat
 
hums a winter song.

 
 
 

Three winters ago
 
my friend was felled by a stroke—
 
even sparrows wept.

 
 
 

The north wind’s howling.
 
I decide to stay inside,
 
sipping honeyed tea.

 
 
 

Through barren branches
 
I glimpse the winter mountains—
 
run, my restless feet!

 
 
 

A door swings open.
 
A man and woman walk out.
 
The north wind sweeps in.

 
 
 

In the month of love,
 
if a singing bird should come,
 
I shall learn its song.

 
 
 

Devious north winds
 
are lurking outside my door,
 
hoping to sneak in.

 
 
 

Night of the new moon—
 
I need a thicker blanket
 
to ward off the chill.

 
 
 

The Snow Moon’s long gone.
 
The days are a bit warmer.
 
Daffodils appear.