December’s last day—
 
even the old stone Buddha
 
embraces the change.

 
 
 

Prophet at my door,
 
have you a stone in your throat,
 
or is that a crow?

 
 
 

In my stained white cup
 
the last few drops of coffee
 
have turned cold as stone.

 
 
 

the old stone Buddha
 
silky with cobwebs at dusk—
 
imperturbable

 
 
 

The mice do not know,
 
nor do the stones remember,
 
where they have come from.

 
 
 

Languid afternoon—
 
a pilgrim pillows her head
 
on a smooth, round stone.

 
 
 

Sizzling afternoon—
 
even the old stone Buddha
 
shifts uneasily.