Last day of the year—
 
setting aside my regrets,
 
I brew some fresh tea.

 
 
 

In my year-end dream,
 
I’m sure I smell fresh blossoms
 
on my cherry tree.

 
 
 

By cherry blossoms,
 
though they be but year-end dreams,
 
my hope is renewed.

 
 
 

I will miss you, Earth,
 
and your hundred million songs,
 
when I have to leave.

 
 
 

Except for the saw,
 
the snarling, growling chainsaw,
 
the woods are silent.

 
 
 

After-Christmas rain—
 
greedily my plum tree drinks
 
to prepare for spring.

 
 
 

A crow in the oak
 
manages to croak out news
 
of a baby’s birth.

 
 
 

The wind remembers
 
how, at Bethlehem’s manger,
 
it sang through the night.

 
 
 

Little brown sparrow,
 
are you composing new songs
 
for Christmas morning?

 
 
 

Cold December rain—
 
perhaps someone with good news
 
will knock at my door.