Shoestring

tying her shoestring

all alone for the first time—

her trembling fingers

Alone

drinking tea alone—

first spring rain on the rooftop

lulling me to sleep

to unfaithful stars

we are faithful companions—

north wind, crow and I

in a wayside park

only one pigeon cooing

and a crimson leaf

At the moon’s rising

no one needs tell the cricket

to strike up her song.

When old men stumble

on roots of maple and birch,

the crow’s time has come.

whispering to sand

shouting at the ships and sea—

a drunken sailor

Is it not enough

to become a grain of sand

shifting with the wind?

feeding grounds at dawn

ten thousand ravenous beaks

sandhill cranes break fast

It is difficult

to play the flute at midnight

with only one hand.