Little brown sparrow,
 
are you composing new songs
 
for Christmas morning?

 
 
 

November morning—
 
an old man walks through the park,
 
greeting all the dogs.

 
 
 

the tea in my cup
 
diluted with morning light—
 
autumn solitude

 
 
 

Autumn morning fog—
 
I part the misty curtain
 
to see my next step.

 
 
 

Early morning rain—
 
I linger over coffee
 
and write some haiku.

 
 
 

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.