Short Poems

After dinner, Sunday afternoons, we boys would walk slowly
to the lots between the streets and the marshes;
and seated under the pale blue sky would watch the ball game—
in a noisy, joyous crowd, lemonade men out in the fringe tinkling their bells beside their yellow carts.
As we walked back, the city stretched its rows of houses across the lots—
light after light, as the lamplighter went his way and women lit the gas in kitchens to make supper.

The house-wreckers have left the door and a staircase,
now leading to the empty room of night.

No one is on the lawn so early but the birds,
sparrows and robins pecking at the seeds
the wind has blown here; the wind itself is gone.

Not by the dusty stretch of days
Slow-gathering to lengthening years
We measure friendship's chain,
But by the understanding touch,
The smile, the soul-kiss, yea, the tears
That ease the load of pain.

From outside a hedge, a hen calls her chicks
The ground outside is covered with grass
The chicks try to fly up and over:
hedge too high, they fall—a third, a fourth.

Spring breeze—
the bank goes on and on,
her home still far.

I went down the bank to pick fragrant plants,
but everywhere brambles blocked the way
How jealous those thorns are!
They've ripped my robe and scratched my thighs.

Rocks rising from the rushing water—
stepping on some, I picked fragrant parsley
Thank you, rocks, thank you so much
You've kept my robe completely dry.

The willow
by the lone teahouse

Two men drink wine at the only table,
talking in the south Osaka way
They pay with three whole strings of coppers
and, as they leave, invite me to sit down.