Short Poems

Some snow still remains
as mist moves low on the slopes
toward evening.

Before time passes,
remember your parent fondly—
and take comfort now.

Flowing water, far away—
and a plum-scented village.

Still there, somewhere:
the moon off behind the mist
traversing the night.

A boat being poled along,
sounding clear at the break of dawn.

Mountains at morning—
how many nights of frost
preceded the mist?

O 'tis my delight
In the dead of the night
To rush to the Lucifer match,
And allume all the room
For a sight of the bite
That has cloven my slumbers to fill me with spite,
And indulge in a desperate scratch!

If I can find
no place fit to live,
let me live “no place”—
in this hut of sticks
flimsy as the world itself

Even a person free of passion
would be moved
to sadness:
autumn evening
in a marsh where snipes fly up

The way the chicken walks—
like it wanted
to say something