Last day of the month—
 
on my sun-warmed garden bench
 
a feral cat naps.

 
 
 

Though my way is clear,
 
I stumble on the fragrance
 
of cherry blossoms.

 
 
 

With no fixed address,
 
you and I, blue butterfly,
 
make this world our home.

 
 
 

Between here and there,
 
a long and lonely journey—
 
come with me, blackbird!

 
 
 

a journey too long
 
to make in less than a year—
 
the first plum blossom

 
 
 

barn owl’s hunting ground—
 
the vast expanse of shadows
 
between oak and pine

 
 
 

Morning’s first strong light—
 
a crow imprints its shadow
 
on my backyard fence.

 
 
 

Peony blossoms—
 
I think of having missed them
 
had I journeyed on.

 
 
 

Door of old sorrows—
 
at dusk I stand before it,
 
my key in the lock.

 
 
 

In a time of plague,
 
one yellow rose in a vase—
 
this will be my song.