Short Poems

In the snow piled
on the bedroom roof
the hail makes no sound,
but as it slants down,
it raps at the window

In the path of the late sun,
almost set now,
they come forth—
those farthermost peaks
of the mist-locked mountains

From peaks in the morning storm
fog drifts down,
floats over the Oi River,
and then flows away

Drawn on by moonlight,
he passes up the inn
where he meant to stay,
a traveler in the night
walking tomorrow's road

The cuckoo,
repeating his cry,
now right here singing—
how clear and cool
the color of his voice!

Bird voices gently calling,
and as morning breaks
on the hills,
in the color of the mist,
a feel of spring

A traveler's pillow,
bundled up, undone,
changing night by night—
the dreams of these brief naps
are gone without a trace

Takase Mountain:
I push along
a trail under the pines,
an evening storm blowing up,
not meeting a soul

Though the glow
of the evening sun
shines over the waves,
the little island in the distance
has grayed into darkness

Wind that tossed the pines
subsides in the grass
of the foothill plain,
rain races the clouds
of the rising storm