Another winter coming and I’m talking to myself.
I’m setting up my wine and oil on the cellar shelf
In demijohns and jars as relics of my lucky stars.
It’s getting late. The more time flows the icier its scars.
I can’t tell if I pass through seasons or they pass through me.
I’m pulpy as the ripened fruit on my persimmon tree,
Whose leaves have fallen. In the distance, Mount Soratte’s cone
Is floating like an island where the tide of clouds has blown.
A raven grouches past defoliated pylon wire
Across the valley toward the setting sun’s sputtering fire,
Which the moon, a hooded vagabond, wields blood-red on a sickle:
A reaper not as grim as death, or fate, but just as fickle.