Vine

New year, day twenty—

another vine needs pruning,

but my shears are dull.

Hunt

New year, day nineteen—

beneath my barren plum tree

sparrows hunt for food.

New year, day sixteen—

I try to read the river,

but it won’t keep still.

New year, day fourteen—

a toasty little teahouse

fills with thirsty guests.

New year, thirteenth day—

I linger on the mountain

till the sun goes down.

Twelfth night of the year—

the moon’s gone into hiding,

so I number stars.

Tenth day of the year—

I look in vain for snowflakes

on my palm tree’s fronds.