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

 
 
 

First loss of the year—
 
an old mountain pine topples,
 
but no one hears it.

 
 
 

The year’s first good dream—
 
though I’m in a strange city,
 
there are no strangers.

 
 
 

First rain of the year—
 
instead of pruning fruit trees,
 
I sip jasmine tea.

On the year’s first day

the last leaves fall from the oak,

obscuring my path.

 
 
 

Last day of the year—
 
setting aside my regrets,
 
I brew some fresh tea.

 
 
 

In my year-end dream,
 
I’m sure I smell fresh blossoms
 
on my cherry tree.

 
 
 

By cherry blossoms,
 
though they be but year-end dreams,
 
my hope is renewed.

 
 
 

As autumn deepens,
 
I dream of next year’s garden—
 
squash and beans and corn.

 
 
 

First week of the year—
 
we toss old poinsettias
 
on the compost heap.