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.

 
 
 

Autumn morning mist—
 
I pick my way step by step
 
through the shrouded streets.

 
 

Have your way with me,
 
mosquito on my forearm,
 
but you won’t live long.

 
 

On a bright blue day
 
some California poppies
 
have their way with me.

 
 

First-of-May surprise—
 
a way opens before me
 
where none was before.

 
 

walking in a way
 
that others have rejected—
 
April solitude

 
 
 

On this wintry day
 
I choose a little-known way,
 
where I walk and pray.

 
 
 

Walking by moonlight—
 
perhaps on the way a fox
 
will stop to greet me.