Bountiful harvest—
 
songs of thanks for fruits and grains
 
ripen on my tongue.

 
 
 

Two days past Christmas
 
I give thanks for farmworkers
 
pruning the grapevines.

 
 
 

Perhaps giving thanks
 
will thaw my frozen spirit—
 
autumn stubbornness.

 
 
 

Without a prayer book,
 
the wren still stops to give thanks
 
forty times a day.

Stammering

 
 
 

an empty alms bowl—
 
pilgrim stammering her thanks
 
for last night’s supper

Raspberries

 
 
 

In a blue glass bowl
 
I find three red raspberries,
 
for which I give thanks.

Children

 
 
 

one of the temples
 
filled with children giving thanks
 
one of them empty