Ten thousand blossoms—
 
I pause on my long journey
 
to admire just one.

 
 
 

Last Wednesday of March—
 
we throw open the windows,
 
birdsong rushes in.

 
 

After I am gone,
 
who will tend my cherry tree
 
or prune my grapevine?

 
 
 

Today slipped away
 
without my having admired
 
the cherry blossoms.

 
 

First warm breeze of spring—
 
unfolding my old roadmap,
 
I plan a new trip.

 
 

March morning birdsong—
 
I cross another thing off
 
my honey-do list.

 
 

Putin’s war goes on,
 
the price at the pump goes up,
 
and plum trees blossom.

 
 

On a March morning
 
my friend tells me her husband
 
has three months to live.

 
 

Where daffodils grow,
 
there is where I like to go
 
when the March winds blow.

 
 

On a moonlit night
 
the plum and cherry blossoms
 
murmur to the pines.