Sprigs of Spring
“A haiku . . . is a hand beckoning, a door half-opened, a mirror wiped clean. It is a way of returning to nature, to our moon nature, our cherry blossom nature, our falling leaf nature, in short, to our Buddha nature.” —R. H. Blyth
Spring Haiku
her first report card—
a row of plum trees
beginning to pink
in one car window
and out the other . . .
dandelion puff
late blossoms . . .
the aftershock
shakes them down
spring cleaning—
dust in the shape
of unanswered mail
spring haze . . .
the alpenglow
going slow
spring sun—
a pallbearer stops
to tie his shoe
spring birdsong . . .
unopened the longest,
the heaviest present
a robin’s song the next hospital bed now empty
spring breeze—
the pull of her hand
as we near the pet store
tulip festival—
the colours of all the cars
in the parking lot
scattered petals . . .
the thud of my books
in the book drop +
mountain spring—
in my cupped hand
pine needles
spring thaw—
the old scarecrow
a little taller
afternoon hike—
the pussy willows dwindling
from my handful
spring breeze through the window . . .
stains on an apron
left at the counter
spring cleaning—
dirt in the grooves
of the five-iron
spring breeze—
the oars fed
into the oarlocks
empty silo—
spring wind pops the metal
in and out
apple blossoms . . .
into the wind
spring rain
scent of wisteria—
she finishes translating
the birth certificate
sound of spring rain—
a drip clings
to the shower-head
temple blossoms . . .
the deep tones
of wind bells
spring sun—
at the top of the roller coaster
she says yes
morning sickness—
the patter of spring rain
on our new roof
the river flowing stronger
first catkins
on the willow
spring wind spreads the pine needles
birth announcement . . .
a plum petal falls
into my open palm
drifting cherry petals . . .
a window goes up
in the passing limousine
drapes drawn—
just the edges done
on the daffodil puzzle
spring wind—
a cherry blossom
circles the well
a withered apple
caught in an old spine rake
. . . blossoms fall
birdsong fades
into the cherry’s scent . . .
she reaches for my hand
the cherry tree bare
with blossoms by its trunk—
an empty stroller
spring tide
slowly lifting
coastal fog
plum blossoms ripple
a mayfly moves
from the plover’s shadow
rainsong
on the path
the colour of petals
Jardin du Lexembourg
the bending daffodils
under smog
sending a French postcard . . .
the daffodil stamp
tastes like home
impatient schoolkids—
pink tulips sway to a different rhythm
than the red ones
my hesitant knock—
the path to her door
drifted with blossoms
cherry blossoms
blowing down the lane—
my expired meter
Spring Tanka
ひさかたのひかりのどけき春の日にしづ心なく花の散るらん 紀友則
hisakata no hikari nodokeki harunohi ni shizugokoro naku hana no chiruran Ki no Tomonori
the light filling the air
is so mild this spring day
only the cherry blossoms
keep falling in haste—
why is that so? Ki no Tomonori
(The above is my translation, with Emiko Miyashita, of a poem that was printed on the back of 150,000,000 U.S. postage stamps in 2012.)
words do not come
for you
on your passing
till the first warm day—
the blossoming plum
April comes
and now you are gone,
you, who told your guardian angel
each year on your birthday
not yet
all my books collect dust
except the one of love poems
you gave me that day
when the spring rains
kept us indoors
on the day
my old girlfriend
moves away,
I change my calendar
to a picture of spring
blossoms are starting—
today, someone has tied
a love poem
to my favourite tree,
that car-damaged plum
beneath the lilacs
the April wind
ripples the pond—
in every petal
the curve of your cheek