Trembling

 
 
 

the trembling
 
of a wizened monk
 
at matins

Warm

 
 
 

tattered quilt
 
cannot warm my bones
 
one more night

Path

 
 
 

left foot first
 
down the mountain path
 
then the right

Ripe

 
 
 

ripe with fog
 
plum orchard silent
 
this morning

Sun

 
 
 

summer sun—
 
blind beggar woman
 
lifts her face

Bun

 
 
 

the baker
 
has only one bun
 
one bun left

Daydreaming

 
 
 

daydreaming
 
while open windows
 
let rain in

Holy

 
 
 

in all things
 
bud and bloom and fruit
 
the holy

Scent

 
 
 

not enough
 
scent of April rain
 
to dab on

Nothing

 
 
 

with nothing
 
for the way ahead
 
but her wits