Waning crescent moon—
 
I need a thicker jacket
 
to ward off the chill.

 
 
 

Waiting for sunrise
 
on one of winter’s last days,
 
I savor my tea.

 
 
 

On St. Patrick’s Day
 
I sip some Irish coffee
 
and watch the sunset.

 
 
 

Do you, Sister Stone,
 
know how long you can withstand
 
the north wind’s pounding?

 
 
 

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

 
 
 

Winter’s waning days—
 
a solitary pilgrim
 
walks a desert path.

 
 
 

My thrift-store sweater,
 
bought for five bucks years ago,
 
still warms my old bones.

 
 
 

How pleasant to nap
 
in the middle of the day
 
while the north wind blows!

 
 
 

Waxing gibbous moon—
 
the scent of early blossoms
 
stains the chilly air.

 
 
 

Even in winter,
 
sunlight grows abundantly
 
in desert gardens.