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.

 
 

Near the temple gate
 
some fading cherry blossoms
 
cause the priest to smile.

 
 

If only someone
 
could keep these cherry blossoms
 
from fading, falling!

 
 

My brother, long dead,
 
was not raised to life again
 
on Easter morning.

 
 

Lizards, crickets, crows,
 
even the old stone Buddha,
 
welcome Easter Day.

 
 
 

Deepening winter—
 
enticed by snow-free pathways,
 
I go exploring.

 
 
 

Bitter winter wind—
 
cherry-blossom memories
 
and tea keep me warm.