Short Poems

The sprays of wisteria
arranged in a vase—
one cluster
dangles down
on the piled-up books.

Last year in spring
I saw the wisterias
in Kameido—
seeing this wisteria now,

If you stick the stems
in strong sake,
the wilted flowers
of the wisteria
will bloom again like new

If I were to paint
the purple
of the wisteria blossoms,
I ought to paint it

I, who
think so often of
the fun I had as a boy,
and watch the fireworks
more intently than a child

I, who
plant the pit
in the little garden,
waiting for the time when a tree
will flower and bear fruit

I, who
listen to a man
tell how he climbed
Mount Fuji
and rub my skinny legs

I, who
hear the drums
from Yoshiwara
and alone late at night
sort out haiku

I don't know when
I'll get well again,
but I'm having seeds
for fall flowers
planted in the garden

When I look
at wisteria blossoms
I want to get out
my purple paints
and paint them