At a wayside inn
 
travelers tell winter tales
 
over cups of tea.

 
 
 

Over cups of tea
 
our winter conversation
 
takes a spring-like turn.

 
 
 

Last day of winter—
 
over cups of strong coffee
 
we share poetry.

 
 
 

Third weekend of spring—
 
in cups made out of peat moss,
 
I start melon seeds.

Meal

 
 
 

for the evening meal
 
bread still warm from the oven
 
and two cups of tea

Raindrops

 
 
 

On a dusty way
 
grains of sand become raindrops—
 
pilgrims fill their cups.

Daybreak

 
 
 

can’t hit Snooze again
 
six cups of coffee later
 
morning’s still too bright