Which mountain was it
 
that called my name in the night?
 
The wild geese must know.

 
 
 

On a mountain path
 
no wider than a child’s foot
 
Autumn picks her way.

 
 

The day of my birth
 
is like a misty mountain
 
seen from far away.

 
 

Twisted tales of spring—
 
I hear them from the raven
 
and the mountain pine.

 
 

April settles down
 
on a mountain with no name
 
as if for a nap.

 
 
 

Two rabbits, one moon—
 
not a trace of snow remains
 
on the mountain pines.

 
 
 

A mountain jay shrieks,
 
cracking both morning’s quiet
 
and ice on the pond.

 
 
 

A crooked pine tree
 
atop the winter mountain
 
holds a scolding crow.

 
 
 

First loss of the year—
 
an old mountain pine topples,
 
but no one hears it.

 
 
 

Who orders the wind,
 
telling it which way to blow?
 
Do you, mountain pine?