First weeks of the year—
 
I plan another journey,
 
knowing plans are vain.

 
 
 

In the year’s first month
 
my dreams are strange and twisted
 
like bristlecone pines.

 
 
 

First week of the year—
 
no snow in my yard, unless
 
you count white roses.

 
 
 

The year that perished
 
only a few days ago—
 
how close it still seems!

 
 
 

A new year begins—
 
the paths I choose not to take
 
outnumber the stars.

 
 
 

A break in the clouds—
 
how bright the winter sunlight
 
on the year’s last day!

 
 

Thanksgiving dinner–
 
the circle’s smaller this year,
 
our talk is thinner.

 
 

The apricot tree
 
deprives itself of blossoms
 
for a year of rest.

 
 
 

First loss of the year—
 
an old mountain pine topples,
 
but no one hears it.

 
 
 

The year’s first good dream—
 
though I’m in a strange city,
 
there are no strangers.