Hold me, Grandmother,
 
for the long night is coming—
 
summer slips away.

 
 
 

Not every journey
 
needs to have yellow roses
 
waiting at the end.

 
 
 

End-of-summer dirge—
 
the scarecrow’s tattered jacket
 
flutters in a breeze.

 
 

Ignoring the heat,
 
three sunflowers pop open
 
in a dusty place.

 
 
 

Mid-September sky—
 
neither a cloud nor a crow
 
smudges the blueness.

 
 

Late-summer breakfast—
 
black coffee leaks from a crack
 
in my old white cup.

 
 
 

Though your heads are bowed,
 
won’t you sing me one last song,
 
fading sunflowers?

 
 

Late-summer heatwave—
 
I long for cooler weather
 
and cherry blossoms.

 
 
 

A single red leaf
 
foretells cooler days ahead—
 
pilgrimage weather.

 
 

The summer mountains
 
seem to have no cares at all,
 
but I have many.