Short Poems

I do not know the day
my pain will end yet
in the little garden
I had them plant
seeds of autumn flowers

two feet tall,
the crimson-budded roses,
their young thorns
tender in
the soft spring rain

to every needle
of the needled pine it clings—
the pearl white dew,
forming but to scatter,
scattering but to form

on the pine needles,
each of the slender needles,
a dewdrop rests—
a thousand pearls lie
quivering, yet never fall

the bucket's water
poured out and gone,
drop by drop
dew drips like pearls
from the autumn flowers

saw the country
and returned—now deep at night
I lie in bed and
fields of mustard flowers
bloom before my eyes

In the spring chill,
as I slept with sword by pillow,
deep at night
my little sister came to me
in dreams from home.

The man
I used to meet in the mirror
is no more.
Now I see a wasted face.
It dribbles tears.

the plaintain at the veranda's edge
unfolds its coiled leaves,
its jewels,
and veils the water basin
in five feet of green

curtains drawn,
the emperor's love
still lies abed—
on crimson peonies,
the morning sun shines