My journey begins
 
while the snowy plum blossoms
 
fade and waste away.

 
 

In my wooden flute
 
my breath becomes plum blossoms—
 
fragrance for the world.

 
 

Little purple plum,
 
if you had a voice and tongue
 
you could sing with me.

 
 

Plum, your purple skin
 
is not envied by the crows
 
or white butterflies.

 
 

Since the plum is done
 
with blooming for now, let fruit
 
set abundantly!

 
 

As the drought deepens,
 
leaves rain down from my plum tree,
 
littering the ground.

 
 

It’s never too late
 
to sit under the plum tree
 
in silence, and wait.

 
 

With help from a breeze,
 
spent plum blossoms settle down
 
in an old clay pot.

 
 

A plum tree blossoms
 
beside an unpainted house—
 
April solitude.

 
 

Somewhere in Ukraine
 
a plum tree is blossoming
 
in a dead man’s yard.