This winter morning
 
is just like any other—
 
tea for you and me.

 
 
 

On Christmas morning
 
a newborn baby’s mewling
 
for his mother’s breast.

 
 
 

The darkness deepens—
 
I write some Christmas haiku
 
and then a sonnet.

 
 
 

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

 
 
 

The Full Beaver Moon
 
guides early-morning voters
 
to the polling place.

 
 
 

Brisk autumn morning—
 
in my cup the universe
 
masquerades as tea.

 
 
 

Autumn morning mist—
 
I pick my way step by step
 
through the shrouded streets.

 
 

September morning—
 
I linger over coffee
 
till the fog burns off.

 
 

Summer morning walk—
 
to amuse himself, my friend
 
converses with crows.

 
 

Morning by morning
 
I wait for your appearing,
 
yellow butterfly.