Last night of the month—
 
by the waxing crescent moon
 
I make my way home.

 
 
 

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

 
 
 

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

 
 

Holy Saturday—
 
having sold all his lilies,
 
the florist goes home.

 
 
 

Without meaning to,
 
I take the wintry road home,
 
much to my delight.

 
 
 

A crow keeps railing
 
against the failing daylight
 
as it heads for home.

 
 
 

Afghan refugees—
 
only the clothes on their backs
 
and some songs from home

 
 
 

On my morning walk
 
I glimpse a ravenous hawk,
 
flying home with prey.

 

 
 
 

Winter evening rain—
 
a blackbird keeps on flying,
 
bent on getting home.

 
 
 

If the moon should freeze,
 
how would I find my way home
 
on this wintry night?