My tongue starts burning,
 
long before the tulips bloom,
 
with the flames of praise.

 
 

Little purple plum,
 
if you had a voice and tongue
 
you could sing with me.

 
 
 

Bountiful harvest—
 
songs of thanks for fruits and grains
 
ripen on my tongue.

 
 
 

My tongue’s forgotten
 
how to talk with the foxes
 
and sing with the stars.

 
 
 

October twilight—
 
shrouded in thick mist, the crow
 
cannot find its tongue.

 
 
 

A warm spring morning—
 
I place the names of roses
 
on my eager tongue.

 

 
 
 

Crow on the fencepost,
 
can’t you still your noisy tongue
 
for just three seconds?

 

 
 
 

Malevolent crow,
 
because of your fiery tongue
 
my anger blazes!

 
 
 

Summer by summer
 
three words roll round on my tongue:
 
fig, magnolia, plum.

 
 
 

How can the blossom
 
tell me of its comeliness
 
if it has no tongue?