Midwinter morning—
 
the hotel’s breakfast buffet
 
runs out of bacon.

 
 
 

Midwinter morning—
 
an old man with a prayer wheel
 
spins it in the park.

 
 
 

Midwinter morning—
 
I bow before the plum tree
 
now covered with snow.

 
 
 

fragrant cups of tea
 
with scones fresh from the oven—
 
winter morning treats

 
 
 

The last plum leaf falls—
 
why would I trade this morning
 
for any other?

 
 
 

Sunday morning rain—
 
the left wing of the blackbird
 
quivers with each drop.

 
 
 

Darkness and thick smoke
 
swirling in my morning joe—
 
autumn turns to ash.