A vase set out

on the window sill

near the ribes

A hooker

beneath the only street light

that still works

When even the ice
will no longer respond
to his touch

The ice

breathing itself out

in the daytime

Singing

over the ice

a pebble

Checked out

before breakfast

hoarfrost

Everything

from the icicle

in the puddle

Nothing
from the icicle

in the puddle

Icicles
meditating
in the sun

Still life

over the water-butt

an icicle

I mainly see

my own eyelashes

sun on snow

She sings

for the sake of

the echo

The harvest

of all that bird seed-

one finch

Sunday snow

all the wounds

healed again

A chainsaw

sinking its teeth

into the silence

This morning

over the green waste container

a moon rind

The echo
of the temple bell
nothing more yet

In the net

of the fat ball

only wind

Moon crescent

my toe nails

cut

Wet laundry

in the cold wind

Monday

Heaven

falling apart in pixels

hailstorm

February

in each storm night

her rosary

The wind

shakes a little rain

from the bamboo