The crows are cawing;
on the other side of the wall
my father’s grave

Waxing moon,
and the moss much greener
after urinating

before the rain . . .
the white stork
gets lost in the fog

wet feet —
the taste of the medlars
after the thunderstorm

City pond,
on the plastic duck
a snail.

The dry leaves
far from the banana tree.
Wind in the park.

before seeing it,
the scent of hawthorn;
afternoon in May

little maple:
with the perching sparrow
a leaf falls off

In the pond
a black duck
looking back

alone in the night,
not even the moon
for watching

the taste of water
in the hollow of my hands.
River in winter

Gleam of moonlight
In the tracks left
By the sailors

Seemed to be dead
when fishing it out of the water . . .
A grasshopper

blanket of snow —
the shadow of the trees
even darker 

Hands full,
he leans them against her chest
the mandarins

Waxing moon,
in the neighbouring garden
a cat in heat.

Tomb without snow
the afternoon moon
footprints and flowers.

The dead blackbird
and its yellow beak
remains yellow

the colt on its hind legs
and even the algae
of the river in bloom

the piece of land,
covers itself this year
with daisies

Cold morning
The church has filled
with human scent

March rain
Inside out, in the ditch,
a rabbit skin

Only the shadow
of a cloud on the snow
no trace at all

cold as the morning,
the skin of the persimmons
recently picked

Children’s siesta
Watermelons and muskmelons
under the camp-beds

walking
until the pathway
has become open country

along the path of withered leaves
the hedgehog, the wind
... and the moon

Behind the procession,
the scent of the flowers
crushed underfoot

at low altitude
a blackbird over the lawn —
smell of rain

Pedalling
against the north wind
smell of fig trees

the Mona Lisa
on the pavement: art at one
mud at ten

autumn wind:
falling from the tree
yesterday’s rain

Winter Stream:
A leaf spinning
In the bubbles

Children play,
In the broken boat
Of the rice field 

By the pond
the uneven shadows
of the turtles