After Labor Day
 
I dream of next spring’s garden
 
and what seeds to plant.

 
 

On a warm spring day
 
a curious crow watches
 
an old dog napping.

 
 

Tell me again, wind,
 
why you’ve placed your loud spring voice
 
on the raven’s wing.

 
 

On this spring morning
 
I think of the last journey
 
that I’ll ever take.

 
 

Hearing some old tales
 
from the cherry blossoms’ tongues,
 
I plan new journeys.

 
 

From its pine-top perch
 
an owl booms out a warning—
 
spring melancholy.

 
 

In a pool of light
 
a cat nurses three kittens—
 
spring tranquility.

 
 

Seven wild turkeys
 
cross the path in front of me,
 
flaunting spring plumage.

 
 

Twisted tales of spring—
 
I hear them from the raven
 
and the mountain pine.

 
 

Spring melancholy—
 
every melon seed I sow
 
fails to germinate.