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.

 
 
 

In my eagerness
 
to reach the winter mountains,
 
my feet miss the way.

A little more light—

two weeks after the solstice

a new way appears.

 
 
 

A little boy weeps—
 
the snowstorm that was coming
 
heads another way.

 
 
 

Days before Christmas,
 
the way of my pilgrimage
 
stays hidden from me.

 
 
 

Winter pilgrimage—
 
I walk the way before me
 
by faith, not by sight.

 
 
 

Last night of the month—
 
by the waxing crescent moon
 
I make my way home.

 
 
 

With each song you sing
 
you teach me thanksgiving’s way,
 
little brown sparrow.

 
 
 

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