On the year’s first day

the last leaves fall from the oak,

obscuring my path.

 
 
 

A crow in the oak
 
manages to croak out news
 
of a baby’s birth.

 
 
 

On a gusty day
 
the last leaves quake and tremble
 
high up in the oak.

 
 
 

Gusty autumn day—
 
only a few dozen leaves
 
still cling to the oak.

 
 
 

On an August day
 
I seek respite from the sun—
 
shadows of the oak.

 
 
 

In the oak tree’s shade
 
a homeless man and his dog
 
take a midday nap.

 

 
 
 

I quiet myself,
 
hoping the oak tree will share
 
its secrets with me.

 
 
 

Blackbird in the oak,
 
perhaps I’ll listen to you
 
on some other day.

 
 
 

November’s last rain—
 
the leaves that clung to the oak
 
now litter the ground.

 
 
 

Into a cold stream
 
one oak leaf drops at twilight—
 
autumn solitude.