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.

 
 

Fragrance of cocoa
 
stains the summer morning air—
 
chocolate daisies bloom.

 
 

On this spring morning
 
I think of the last journey
 
that I’ll ever take.

 
 

My brother, long dead,
 
was not raised to life again
 
on Easter morning.

 
 

On a spring morning
 
I think of all the journeys
 
that I’ll never take.

 
 

March morning birdsong—
 
I cross another thing off
 
my honey-do list.

 
 

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

 
 
 

The first tulip—white—
 
in a terracotta pot
 
greets the morning light.