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

 
 
 

Even in winter,
 
sunlight grows abundantly
 
in desert gardens.

 
 
 

The desert mountains
 
care not a whit for winter,
 
and neither do I.

 
 
 

Walking home alone,
 
a woman in a red coat
 
hums a winter song.

 
 
 

Three winters ago
 
my friend was felled by a stroke—
 
even sparrows wept.

 
 
 

Through barren branches
 
I glimpse the winter mountains—
 
run, my restless feet!

 
 
 

Winter loneliness—
 
I walk on a wooden porch
 
to hear its creaking.

 
 
 

They say a candle
 
can keep you warm in winter—
 
I prefer a quilt.

 
 
 

Through my open door
 
I hear rare winter birdsong,
 
so, I sing along.

 
 
 

Winter pilgrimage—
 
in the suitcase of my heart
 
I pack all I need.