Short Poems

Will someone,
at the scent of orange blossom,
think of me
when I too
am a person of long ago?

While I gaze far off,
thinking on and on
about this world of ours,
a white cloud vanishes
in the empty sky

Where the water
tumbles over the rocks,
each white bead can be counted—
moonlight shining
on Clear Cascade River

When spring comes,
this world once more
calls to me—
in what other world
could I see such blossoms?

We hearing them
are the ones who shed tears—
wild geese bound for home,
crying as they make their way
across the dawn sky

This world—
no road that takes us out of it.
I thought there was,
and pushed deep into the mountains,
but even here the lone deer cries

Spring night,
and even the moonbeams
filtering through the plum
by the eaves
seem to be scented

Showers wet
the orange blossoms,
winds blow over them,
a mountain cuckoo
is singing in the clouds

Sailing close to shore,
sheltering in a rush hut
on the beach,
I hear beside my pillow
the unaccustomed sound of waves

On the Fushimi hills
as I look out
from the shade of the pines,
over paddies where dawn is breaking,
fall wind blows