In my summer dream
 
I seem to be a willow
 
growing by a stream.

 
 
 

The last days of spring
 
trickle out the garden gate
 
like a desert stream.

 
 
 

Into a cold stream
 
one oak leaf drops at twilight—
 
autumn solitude.

 
 
 

By a mountain stream
 
I take a break for birdsong,
 
and then move along.

 
 
 

The great blue heron,
 
having fished without success,
 
tries another stream.

 
 
 

Early morning rain—
 
all my plans evaporate
 
as a desert stream.

 
 
 

pausing for birdsong
 
by a little mountain stream
 
before moving on

Wallet

 
 
 

days before Christmas
 
my wallet is emptier
 
than a drought-year stream

Angling

 
 
 

autumn afternoon—
 
angling for the uncaught fish
 
in the clear, cold stream

Stones

 
 
 

seven sacred stones
 
waiting for me to find them
 
in the mountain stream