On a bookstore shelf
 
I find a winter poem
 
scribbled in the dust.

 
 

Like a wounded elk
 
Lady Autumn slips away,
 
leaking her last breath.

 
 
 

finding a new shape
 
into which my darkness fits—
 
autumn slips away

 
 
 

As autumn winds down,
 
my neighbor scoops pine needles
 
from his rain gutters.

 
 
 

Early December—
 
although the rose is fading,
 
still, it brings me joy.

 
 
 

rainy autumn day—
 
reading obituaries
 
as I sip my tea

 
 
 

One tiny red leaf
 
drops from the blueberry bush
 
into a clay pot.

 
 

Our conversation,
 
scented by chrysanthemums,
 
lasts until daybreak.

 
 

Which mountain was it
 
that called my name in the night?
 
The wild geese must know.

 
 
 

First day of the month—
 
the tea in my cup grows cold
 
along with my prayers.