First day of the year—
 
the Mexican gardener
 
wakes up before 6.

 
 
 

December’s last day—
 
even the old stone Buddha
 
embraces the change.

 
 
 

First day of winter—
 
your tale ended long ago,
 
yellow butterfly.

 
 
 

Last day of autumn—
 
with a skipping pen I scratch
 
seventeen haiku.

 
 
 

Last warm autumn day—
 
a crow wants to share my tea
 
on the patio.

 
 
 

Without a prayer book,
 
the wren still stops to give thanks
 
forty times a day.

 
 
 

First day of autumn—
 
I count only two red leaves
 
on my maple tree.