On that donkey’s back
 
flakes of snow accumulate—
 
new burdens to bear.

 
 
 

After the Worm Moon
 
I sniff for cherry blossoms,
 
but smell only frost.

 
 
 

After the Worm Moon
 
daffodils begin to stir
 
in their wintry beds.

 
 
 

Night of the Worm Moon—
 
sniffing the air for blossoms,
 
I smell only frost.

 
 
 

Erasing my tracks,
 
the north wind declares victory,
 
then goes on its way.

 
 
 

No one celebrates
 
March first better than you do,
 
little brown sparrow.