Halloween morning—
 
the boy next door eats breakfast,
 
dressed as Spiderman.

 
 
 

As long as there’s milk,
 
the cat doesn’t mind at all
 
that it has no name.

 
 
 

What song’s left to sing
 
now that all the maple trees
 
have cast off their leaves?

 
 
 

Dry grasses, dry weeds—
 
the mysteries of autumn
 
manifest themselves.

 
 
 

By a mountain stream
 
I take a break for birdsong,
 
and then move along.

 
 
 

An old man’s pet dove
 
perches on his left shoulder,
 
cooing morning songs.

 
 
 

See! my wrinkled feet
 
still know how to walk six miles
 
to the temple gate.

 
 
 

A man drinking tea
 
lifts his arthritic left hand
 
to brush off a fly.

 
 
 

With astonishment
 
I look at my wrinkled hands—
 
deepening autumn.

 
 
 

Ravens need no shawls,
 
because their sleek, black feathers
 
outshine royal robes.