First week of winter—
 
the path to the rose garden
 
is dusted with snow.

 
 
 

On the mountain path
 
I seek a place to shelter—
 
autumn thunderstorm.

 
 
 

Deepening autumn—
 
the path on which I stumble
 
seems to have no end.

 
 
 

Late summer evening—
 
the homeward path is narrow,
 
but my steps are sure.

 
 
 

Wind from the mountain,
 
why do you try to sweep me
 
from my homeward path?

 
 
 

With no walking stick,
 
how distant seem the mountains,
 
how narrow my path!

 
 
 

Lengthening shadows—
 
an artist plants her easel
 
on the garden path.