November morning—
 
an old man walks through the park,
 
greeting all the dogs.

 
 
 

Warm summer evening—
 
behind the sleazy motel
 
a homeless man sleeps.

 
 
 

blooming just in time
 
for the old man’s funeral—
 
his wife’s hollyhocks

 
 
 

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

 
 
 

In the oak tree’s shade
 
a homeless man and his dog
 
take a midday nap.

 

 
 
 

On his homeward way
 
an old man trudges slowly,
 
weighed down by spring rain.

 

 
 
 

April afternoon—
 
an old man blowing smoke rings
 
makes some children laugh.

 

 
 
 

On the old stone bridge
 
one man waits for another
 
in the pouring rain.

 
 
 

On my morning walk
 
I watch a schoolboy watching
 
the man who feeds birds.

 
 
 

No one knows the name
 
of the man who sleeps each night
 
near the temple gate.