When I pass through the mown field,
after the second harvest, shimmering,
the smooth straw covered in dew
has half-blocked the garden path.
And when I step onto the garden soil
toward the bundle of dried weeds,
the hum of mourning birds
is sadder than any word.
A tree stands bare beside the wall,
with just one brown leaf still trembling,
disturbed, perhaps not by my thought—
it falls gently with little flutter.
Before reaching the end of the begun path,
I stop to choose the faded blue
of the last remaining aster flower
to bring once again—to you.
