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

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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.

 
 
 

My journey begins—
 
mist from the distant mountains
 
drifts across my path.

 
 
 

On this twisting path,
 
many whom I cannot name
 
have left their footprints.

 
 
 

Feast day of my birth—
 
mist from the distant mountains
 
drifts across my path.