No one can restore
 
what the locusts have eaten—
 
September’s new moon.

 
 
 

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

 
 

To prevent sunburn,
 
I wear a gardening hat
 
with a moon-sized brim.

 
 

The strawberry moon
 
slips through my open window—
 
listen, bullfrogs sing!

 
 
 

Two rabbits, one moon—
 
not a trace of snow remains
 
on the mountain pines.

 
 
 

October sorrow—
 
watching the hunter’s moon slip
 
back into darkness

 
 
 

full moon, empty mouth—
 
my granddaughter’s first lost tooth
 
under her pillow

 
 
 

New moon of August—
 
before me an unseen path
 
awaits my footsteps.

 
 
 

First night of the month—
 
the waning moon pours itself
 
into my teacup.

 
 
 

Little brown sparrow,
 
how brightly you sing again
 
after the new moon!