After Thanksgiving,
 
a freshly raked Zen garden
 
hosts a dead oak leaf.

 
 
 

After Thanksgiving,
 
in a long, narrow garden,
 
one white rose still blooms.

 
 

I sing the praises
 
of autumn birds that visit
 
my seedy garden.

 
 
 

November’s last gifts—
 
a few bedraggled zinnias
 
still grace my garden.

 
 
 

In the autumn rain
 
a stray dog looks for shelter
 
in my garden shed.

A white-crowned sparrow,

while passing through my garden,

leaves its song behind.

 
 
 

After Labor Day
 
I dream of next spring’s garden
 
and what seeds to plant.

 
 

My backyard garden—
 
I search for red tomatoes,
 
but find only green.

 
 

My backyard garden—
 
the melons haven’t ripened,
 
neither has the corn.

 
 
 

February dusk—
 
how long until plum blossoms
 
grace the garden path?