Holding on to dreams?
 
Like trying to keep snowflakes
 
in my ungloved hands.

 
 
 

In the year’s first month
 
my dreams are strange and twisted
 
like bristlecone pines.

 
 
 

Autumn afternoon—
 
a battle-weary soldier
 
dreams of going home.

 
 
 

Midsummer yearning—
 
a stranger in the teahouse
 
dreams of going home.

 
 
 

On long winter nights
 
more than once I’ve been surprised
 
by sunflower dreams.

 
 
 

By cherry blossoms,
 
though they be but year-end dreams,
 
my hope is renewed.

 
 
 

Thunder and lightning—
 
I can almost smell the rain
 
in my autumn dreams.

 
 
 

Over tea at dawn
 
we tell each other our dreams,
 
embellishing them.

 
 
 

Again and again
 
a trackless desert appears
 
in my late spring dreams.

 
 
 

Yellow butterfly,
 
why do you flit in and out
 
of my winter dreams?