First day of summer—
 
an old man hopes his grandson
 
will bring some ice cream.

 
 
 

Final day of spring—
 
halfway up the mountainside
 
a tall pine topples.

 
 
 

The last days of spring
 
trickle out the garden gate
 
like a desert stream.

 
 
 

Final days of spring—
 
morning by morning thick fog
 
enshrouds my plum tree.

 
 
 

In an old clay pot
 
the first white dahlia opens
 
on a warm June day.

 

 
 
 

First day of the month—
 
a crow ruffles its feathers,
 
my plum tree trembles.

 

 
 
 

Children laugh and play
 
behind the funeral home
 
on a warm spring day.

 

 
 
 

On a warm spring day
 
a crow visits my fountain,
 
dips his beak, and drinks.

 

 
 
 

On a warm spring day
 
a shadowy woodland path
 
calls me, so I go.

 

 
 
 

Having done some things,
 
I leave other things undone—
 
one more spring day ends.