Though my goal’s in sight,
 
the path’s not getting shorter,
 
little brown sparrow.

 
 
 

Winter’s waning days—
 
a solitary pilgrim
 
walks a desert path.

 
 
 

Pilgrim on the way,
 
ponder how your path would change
 
if no north wind blew.

 
 
 

Though the north wind blows
 
and you cannot see the path,
 
your feet know the way.

 
 
 

On a mountain path
 
no wider than a child’s foot
 
Autumn picks her way.

 
 

Seven wild turkeys
 
cross the path in front of me,
 
flaunting spring plumage.

 
 
 

I walk in a path
 
that others have rejected—
 
winter solitude.

 
 
 

February dusk—
 
how long until plum blossoms
 
grace the garden path?

On the year’s first day

the last leaves fall from the oak,

obscuring my path.

 
 
 

A path before me
 
lights up with autumn color—
 
see, I skip for joy!