A labyrinth walk
 
on a third-month afternoon—
 
look, a red-tailed hawk!

 
 
 

First day of the month—
 
morning and evening birdsong
 
trickles from the trees.

 
 
 

Last day of the month—
 
perhaps the river will thaw
 
sooner than we think.

 
 
 

In the month of love,
 
if a singing bird should come,
 
I shall learn its song.

 
 
 

Second-month surprise—
 
in the twinkling of an eye
 
wild geese fill the sky!

 
 
 

Last day of the month—
 
rain washes the grit and grime
 
from my neighbor’s roof.

 
 
 

In the year’s first month
 
my dreams are strange and twisted
 
like bristlecone pines.

 
 
 

First day of the month—
 
the tea in my cup grows cold
 
along with my prayers.

 
 
 

Last night of the month—
 
by the waxing crescent moon
 
I make my way home.

 
 

Beginning the month,
 
I reach for pen and paper—
 
flyswatter haiku!