Autumn morning fog—
 
I part the misty curtain
 
to see my next step.

 
 
 

My father’s old shirt—
 
the fragrance of autumn mist
 
lingers on the sleeves.

 
 
 

October twilight—
 
shrouded in thick mist, the crow
 
cannot find its tongue.

 
 
 

Mist on the mountain—
 
a starling far from its nest
 
starts to lose its way.

 
 
 

Little by little
 
I make my way through the mist
 
spilled from the mountain.

 
 
 

By a dusty ditch
 
the sunflowers keep blooming,
 
wearing morning mist.

 
 
 

How will the blackbird
 
find its way home in the mist
 
on this winter’s day?

 
 
 

Summer morning mist
 
settles in the melon patch
 
and on my bare arms.

 
 
 

My father’s old shirt—
 
the fragrance of mountain mist
 
lingers on the sleeves.

 
 
 

Overcast morning—
 
a crow on my backyard fence
 
blends in with the mist.