Autumn morning mist—
 
I dream of months-long journeys
 
to distant places.

 
 

Hearing some old tales
 
from the cherry blossoms’ tongues,
 
I plan new journeys.

 
 

A week past Easter
 
I remember old journeys
 
and plan some new ones.

 
 

On a spring morning
 
I think of all the journeys
 
that I’ll never take.

Shoeless

 
 

blue morning glories—
 
their long and twisting journeys
 
though they have no shoes