In an old clay pot
 
some violas keep blooming—
 
April slips away.

 
 

No one seems to mind
 
that, along with planet Earth,
 
April’s ending soon.

 
 

Had April not come,
 
I would have missed the fragrance
 
of cherry blossoms.

 
 

What’s left of April,
 
a few more days without rain,
 
will soon pass away.

 
 

walking in a way
 
that others have rejected—
 
April solitude

 
 

While watching the news
 
after Orthodox Easter,
 
I see nothing’s changed.

 
 

A week past Easter
 
I remember old journeys
 
and plan some new ones.

 
 

With pen and paper
 
a few days after Easter,
 
I wait for a song.

 
 

fragrant notes flowing
 
from an old monk’s bamboo flute—
 
cherry-blossom songs

 
 

April settles down
 
on a mountain with no name
 
as if for a nap.