A wind from the north—
 
the wanderer within me
 
knows he must move on.

 
 
 

Early in autumn
 
only a few leaves have dropped
 
from my cherry tree.

 
 
 

First week of autumn—
 
honeybees gather nectar
 
from the last blossoms.

 
 
 

Midmorning coffee—
 
I sip from an old stained cup
 
that was my father’s.

 
 
 

Autumn afternoon—
 
a dog leaves a yellow stain
 
on some browning grass.

 
 
 

Autumn afternoon—
 
yellow chrysanthemums bloom
 
where the sidewalk ends.

 
 
 

How many autumns
 
will God pour into my cup
 
after this one’s drained?

 
 
 

First day of autumn—
 
I count only two red leaves
 
on my maple tree.

 
 
 

Last day of summer—
 
a dove and her plaintive song
 
bid each leaf farewell.

 
 
 

A cottonwood leaf,
 
finally losing its grip,
 
flutters to the earth.