It is long past time
 
for picking ripe purple plums—
 
my empty basket.

 
 
 

On the cusp of spring
 
at the basket-weaver’s house
 
a new song begins.

 
 
 

Am I a basket,
 
that I should be filled with fruit
 
picked by careless hands?

Leaves

 
 
 

First dream of autumn:
 
dead leaves from an almond tree
 
fall in my basket.

Temblor

 
 
 

three yellow onions
 
shift in a wicker basket—
 
temblor six-point-oh

Peaches

 
 
 

fetching three peaches
 
from the red wicker basket
 
to peel and slice them

Hiding

 
 
 

hiding the full moon
 
in his basket of apples—
 
the wily farmer

Tangerines

 
 
 

tangerines
 
in a blue basket
 
sweet sadness