In February a small sack of silk
fits tight against a window frame,
warmly wraps tiny spiders.
Glaciers of May melted to icy streams
flood valleys, erode loam,
spare a sapling atop moist stones.
The August sun grills a lawn to wool,
leaves one patch of green
still cool in a pattern shadow.
In November the ginkgo bares its branches
as straw fans spiral to earth…
on the maple, a shriveled fist hangs fast.