Southwestern March winds
      Bending, whipping the plum trees;
Petals everywhere!

Walking the old dog;
      Profusion of plum blossoms!
Few springtimes remain.

Behind the backstop,
      That skinny boy with glasses;
Is it spring so soon?

The muddy road ruts
      And the trickling
Springtime is coming!

The wedding flowers
      And the uninvited
Shooing them away!

On closed window shades,
      Shadows of birds
      in the trees;
Early spring morning.

The fierce springtime winds
      Are too strong for
      paper kites;
The children must wait.

A fresh spring evening—
      Couples walking in
      the park;
Someone sits alone.

Blowing their noses,
      The funeral procession
Ignored plum blossoms.

Old Wantanabe
Humming with each
shovel full;
The garden takes shape.

The flannel nightshirt:
      Washed, folded and put away;
Worn two nights ago!

Spring flowers adorn
      A faded wedding photo;
Pulling garden weeds.

Nights writing haiku—
There is no one to read them;
Spring turns to summer.