Summer threnody—
 
drought-dead leaves drop one by one
 
on a dusty path.

 
 
 

New moon of August—
 
before me an unseen path
 
awaits my footsteps.

 
 
 

Triple-digit temps—
 
stones along the garden path
 
hold their heat all night.

 
 
 

Summer loneliness—
 
on this jasmine-scented path
 
no one walks with me.

 
 
 

Summer’s first journey—
 
the path that seemed straightforward
 
took some turns and twists.

 
 
 

On a warm spring day
 
a shadowy woodland path
 
calls me, so I go.

 

 
 

On a warm spring day

the path to distant mountains

whispers to my feet.

 

 
 
 

A lizard joins me
 
on the log where I’m sitting
 
beside the dirt path.

 
 
 

On this wintry path,
 
although no roses blossom,
 
one small bird still sings.

 
 
 

Will you dog my steps
 
if I take the mountain path,
 
wind from the valley?