November’s last rain—
 
the leaves that clung to the oak
 
now litter the ground.

 
 
 

Icy autumn night—
 
the barefoot abbot shivers
 
as he stoops to sit.

 
 
 

Into a cold stream
 
one oak leaf drops at twilight—
 
autumn solitude.

 
 
 

The wind chimes and I
 
have reached an understanding:
 
they speak, I listen.

 
 
 

Perhaps giving thanks
 
will thaw my frozen spirit—
 
autumn stubbornness.

 
 
 

On Thanksgiving Eve
 
a homeless woman beds down
 
near the temple gate.

 
 
 

deepening autumn—
 
ten thousand mottled grape leaves
 
and my mottled hands

 
 
 

refrigerator
 
humming a song to itself—
 
autumn loneliness

 
 
 

Where do stones come from?
 
How did the crow get its voice?
 
Why do you ask, child?

 
 
 

How many autumns
 
until you empty your loom,
 
weaver of my shroud?