Somewhere a stranger
 
also is known by my name—
 
spring melancholy.

 
 
 

Spring melancholy
 
fills the spaces between words
 
as we sip our tea.

 
 
 

The poems I make
 
will not last nearly as long
 
as the spring mountains.

 
 
 

Pleasant spring surprise—
 
from someone long forgotten,
 
a letter arrives.

 
 
 

If I were a cup
 
empty after spring’s great feast,
 
who would fill me up?

 
 
 

Spring crept up on me.
 
Is no one else astonished
 
by these pine candles?

 
 
 

I take from the shelf
 
yet another empty cup—
 
spring melancholy.

 
 
 

Who will go with me
 
on my pilgrimage through spring?
 
You, white butterfly?

 
 
 

In a little room
 
whose windows will not open,
 
I dream spring mountains!

 
 
 

Waning gibbous moon,
 
guide the pilgrim on her way
 
to the spring river.