Having done some things,
 
I leave other things undone—
 
one more spring day ends.

 

 
 
 

One more April ends—
 
I keep forgetting to spread
 
my father’s ashes.

 

 
 
 

End-of-winter dream:
 
I keep waiting for a bus
 
that never shows up.

 
 
 

How satisfying
 
to eat an avocado
 
as the old year ends!

 
 
 

Rusting windmill blades—
 
how many times will they turn
 
before my path ends?

 
 
 

Deepening autumn—
 
the path on which I stumble
 
seems to have no end.

 
 
 

At my journey’s end,
 
two pears ripe enough to eat
 
still hang on one branch.

 
 
 

What can you tell me,
 
river that flows to the sea,
 
of my journey’s end?

 
 
 

At my journey’s end,
 
a cricket in the kitchen
 
seems to welcome me.

Milkweed

 
 
 

Near December’s end
 
a milkweed pod bursts open,
 
scattering its seeds.