On the garden gate
 
frost flakes gather at daybreak
 
for a tête-à-tête.

 
 
 

On the frozen lake
 
a fisherman in his hut
 
prays for a nibble.

 
 
 

Solitude—the shape
 
of each flake of snow that falls
 
on the garden gate.

 
 
 

Little brown sparrow,
 
where will you find nourishment
 
on this snowy day?

 
 
 

a creaking pulley
 
and creeks that no one can pull—
 
winter mysteries

 
 
 

A pine-tree needle
 
cannot be used for mending
 
my woolen mittens.

 
 
 

Emptying myself
 
of my stubborn resistance,
 
I welcome the snow.

 
 
 

First dream of the month—
 
I see my life’s finale
 
in a desert place.

 
 
 

I open my door
 
to better view the Snow Moon—
 
icy light leaps in.