Little brown sparrow,
 
the house of love is open—
 
come in from the cold!

 
 
 

Autumn pilgrimage—
 
I enter the house of love
 
to find you waiting.

 
 
 

September twilight—
 
the dog at my neighbor’s house
 
barks incessantly.

 
 

At my neighbor’s house
 
weeds outpace the marigolds—
 
prodigal summer.

 
 

A plum tree blossoms
 
beside an unpainted house—
 
April solitude.

 
 
 

I’ll scrape the old paint
 
from the house another day—
 
now sunflowers bloom.

 
 
 

In a ruined house,
 
with walls open day and night,
 
swallows build their nests.

 
 
 

Too often I’ve walked
 
to the house of sorrows, knocked,
 
and the door opened.

 
 
 

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

 
 
 

On my neighbor’s house
 
ropes of ivy still bright green
 
defy autumn’s chill.