seven May mornings
 
when the finches didn’t sing—
 
grey and dreary hours

 
 
 

Late April morning—
 
a thousand dandelions
 
light my neighbor’s yard.

 
 
 

Balmy spring morning—
 
I linger over coffee
 
and scribble haiku.

 
 
 

An open window—
 
unexpected morning rain
 
sings farewell to March.

 
 
 

Little brown sparrow,
 
I can hear your morning song
 
above the wind’s roar.

 
 
 

First day of the month—
 
morning and evening birdsong
 
trickles from the trees.

 
 
 

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.