It is long past time
 
for picking ripe purple plums—
 
my empty basket.

 
 

O peaches, O plums,
 
you offer yourselves to me—
 
how can I say no?

 
 

white bowl, purple plums,
 
song sparrow at my window—
 
kitchen pilgrimage

 
 

It is still too soon

for purple plums to ripen,

yet a goldfinch sings.

 
 
 

Chilly autumn night—
 
the sweet, ripe plums of summer
 
spill into my dreams.

 
 
 

How many stories
 
that no one will ever find
 
masquerade as plums?

 
 
 

Sorting through the mail,
 
I come across your letter,
 
fragrant as ripe plums.

 
 
 

Near the bananas
 
a woman pinches some plums
 
to see if they’re ripe.

 
 
 

Plums ripe for picking
 
appear only in my dreams—
 
deepening winter.

 
 
 

Zen sanctuary—
 
the abbot fingers his beads,
 
dreaming of ripe plums.