In my autumn dream
 
I am the last maple leaf
 
clinging to its tree.

 
 
 

On a whitewashed wall
 
a leaf from the maple tree
 
leaks out its redness.

 
 

The cherry blossoms,
 
having no more songs to sing,
 
mutely leave the tree.

 
 

As the drought deepens,
 
leaves rain down from my plum tree,
 
littering the ground.

 
 

It’s never too late
 
to sit under the plum tree
 
in silence, and wait.

 
 

A plum tree blossoms
 
beside an unpainted house—
 
April solitude.

 
 

Somewhere in Ukraine
 
a plum tree is blossoming
 
in a dead man’s yard.

 
 

On my apple tree
 
a brilliant goldfinch perches—
 
April solitude.

 
 

The apricot tree
 
deprives itself of blossoms
 
for a year of rest.

 
 

After I am gone,
 
who will tend my cherry tree
 
or prune my grapevine?