Last day of the month—
 
in sizzling Arizona
 
even cacti wilt.

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Feast day of my birth—
 
mist from the distant mountains
 
drifts across my path.

 
 
 

Little mourning dove,
 
singing up the sun each day:
 
such a daunting task!

 
 
 

First day of the month—
 
a purple iris greets me
 
near the backyard fence.

 
 
 

Last day of the month—
 
sunlight the color of tea
 
leaks through my window.

 
 
 

Cloudless April day—
 
I walk a desert pathway,
 
consoled by birdsong.

 
 
 

Six days past Easter
 
my plum tree drops its blossoms—
 
snowflakes in the grass.