A little more light—

two weeks after the solstice

a new way appears.

 
 
 

In mid-December
 
the first morning light arrives
 
whenever it wants.

 
 
 

Waxing crescent moon—
 
like the oldest trees on earth
 
I cry, “Light! More light!”

 
 

A casement window
 
opens to the summer sea—
 
salt and light drift in.

 
 

In a pool of light
 
a cat nurses three kittens—
 
spring tranquility.

 
 
 

The first tulip—white—
 
in a terracotta pot
 
greets the morning light.

 
 
 

Winter afternoon—
 
on a pathway washed with light
 
footsteps disappear.

 
 
 

Bleak winter mountains—
 
surely a light will guide me
 
as I journey on.

 
 
 

the tea in my cup
 
diluted with morning light—
 
autumn solitude

 
 
 

To the fading light
 
of an autumn afternoon
 
a crow gives its voice.