Short Poems

putting a handkerchief
atop my hat to dry —
it's really hot!

first summer clothes —
a woman who does not weave
feels a deep guilt

it stands out
even before blooming —

the earthenware mortar —
its sound portends snow
near the year's end

flowers of rice —
let them be my offering

under the harvest moon
awestruck crows
curb their voices

alone in bed
I hear a male mosquito
humming a sad tune

making sure we know
that autumn is here, a leaf
from the empress tree

let us start picking —
don't drop herbs from your basket
or anything else

Ah, the day is waning, in the western sky, over the lonely river, the even pinkish glow is fading . . . ah, when the sun sets, when the sun sets, night will return without fail. I weep alone beneath an apricot tree, but today is the eighth of April, and the sound of a crowd flooding the boulevard betokens festivities to come, so why am I the only one unable to stifle the tears welling up in my heart?