Autumn morning mist—
 
I dream of months-long journeys
 
to distant places.

 
 

On a March morning
 
my friend tells me her husband
 
has three months to live.

Drought

 
 
 

seven months of drought—
 
from the neighbor’s maple tree
 
another leaf falls

Sullen

 
 
 

the sullen season—
 
another rainy morning
 
six more months to go

Scribbling

 
 

still five months away—
 
New Year’s Eve and little ones
 
scribbling in the snow

Kite

 
 
 

seven months later
 
still mourning the blue kite lost
 
among the branches