Last days of summer—
 
the morning flood of birdsong
 
slows to a trickle.

 
 
 

September morning—
 
the city streets are quiet,
 
shrouded in thick fog.

 
 
 

Dewy spiderwebs
 
shimmer in the morning light,
 
to a child’s delight.

 
 
 

By a dusty ditch
 
the sunflowers keep blooming,
 
wearing morning mist.

 
 
 

Summer morning walk—
 
I smile at yellow dahlias
 
in a stranger’s yard.

 
 
 

Cloudless May morning—
 
we mark the last days of spring,
 
longing for some rain.

 

 
 
 

Chilly spring morning—
 
I seek the solace of tea
 
in a plain white cup.

 

 
 
 

A warm spring morning—
 
I place the names of roses
 
on my eager tongue.

 

 
 
 

Pleasant spring morning—
 
we linger over coffee
 
long past ten o’clock.

 

 
 
 

Little brown sparrow,
 
I have no use this morning
 
for your songs of joy.