歳時記

The ephemeral flower above all. In a haiku, the single word 花 (hana) is enough to mean cherry blossom.

It blooms before the cherry, sometimes in the last snows.

Bashō’s frog, diving into the old pond.

The moon softened by the haze of spring evenings. The moon alone belongs to autumn.

The air that quivers above the warming earth.

Its return announces that the season has turned.

The yellow fields that run along the rivers.

Fine, mild, almost silent.

The same mist, in autumn, is called kiri.

A single butterfly is enough to say spring.

It sings as it climbs into the clear sky.

The dandelion itself, a spring word and patron of this temple.

Its song, the first of the year, is rendered as “hō-hokekyo”.

The hills turning green and bright in spring.

Summer evenings at the water’s edge.

Its cry, long awaited, announces summer.

Their endless song is the soundtrack of the season.

The brief storm that breaks the afternoon heat.

A small sound of glass or iron that cools the house.

It blooms in the rain, in the heart of the wet season.

The rains of the wet season, stubborn and monotonous.

It opens its flowers at dawn on the ponds.

High summer, turned toward the sun.

The great white cloud that towers in the afternoon.

The cool of the evening, a small joy of the hot season.

The tender green of the trees at the start of summer.

In a haiku, the moon on its own is an autumn word.

The first wind that cools, and sets one thinking.

Maples ablaze on the mountainsides.

Crickets and grasshoppers singing in the night.

It glides in the low light of late afternoons.

The orange fruit on bare branches, dear to Masaoka Shiki.

Its silver plumes ripple in the wind.

The ephemeral above all, at first light.

Autumn lightning, once said to fertilise the rice.

The guardian of the ripe rice fields.

It blooms around the autumn equinox, along the paths.

The end of the day, or of the season, depending on the poet.

It muffles sounds and remakes the landscape.

The cold wind that strips the trees.

The white of the fields at daybreak.

The bare landscape across which Bashō’s last dreams wander.

The pale, fragrant flower of frozen gardens.

It blooms when everything else has fallen silent.

The frozen water of basins and gutters.

It spends the winter on ponds and rivers.

The brief, cold rain of early winter.

The warmth of the bed in the cold night.

It whistles through alleys and wires.

The brazier, the small red heart of the room.

People climb a hill or go to the shore to watch it rise.

Pine and bamboo set before houses to welcome the new year.

The first dish of the year, which varies from region to region.

The dream of the first nights of the year, hopefully an omen.

People go to pray for the year ahead, in the cold and the crowd.

The lion that bites children’s heads to protect them.

The small envelope given to children.

The poetic name for New Year, from when the year began with spring.

The first brushstroke of the year, for a wish or a poem.