On the cusp of spring
 
solitude’s garden says, “Come,
 
plant yourself in me.”

 
 
 

Autumn solitude—
 
something like a deep chasm
 
opens within me.

 
 

walking in a way
 
that others have rejected—
 
April solitude

 
 

A plum tree blossoms
 
beside an unpainted house—
 
April solitude.

 
 

On my apple tree
 
a brilliant goldfinch perches—
 
April solitude.

 
 
 

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

 
 
 

Winter solitude—
 
tea leaks slowly from the crack
 
in my old white cup.

 
 
 

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

 
 
 

reading a poem
 
to a Facebook audience—
 
winter solitude

 
 
 

Morning, noon, and night
 
I heat the kettle for tea—
 
winter solitude.