Kokuu Gentle Rains Embrace Japan’s Quiet Passage from Spring to Summer
Soft Showers That Nourish Fields and Reflect Inner Calm
Today, in Japan, we celebrate Kokuu (穀雨), one of the twenty‑four solar terms (二十四節気) of the traditional lunisolar calendar. Kokuu crowns the end of spring, and under the modern Gregorian calendar introduced after the Meiji era it falls roughly over the fifteen days beginning around 20 April each year. The name means “the spring rain that moistens a hundred grains (百穀を潤す春の雨が降る),” and those soft, warm showers soak paddies and fields, steady the once‑changeable spring weather, and create perfect conditions for sowing. Because the nourishing rain supplies the seeds and sprouts underground with ample water and nutrients, Kokuu marks the moment when rice farming and other crops commence across the country. Readers visiting Japan at this time can see these scenes everywhere: on today’s walk I found the cherry blossoms already leafing out, the fallen petals carpeting the ground, the air warm and overcast, and the humidity thick. Truly, today feels like the gentle start of the rainy spell that bridges spring’s close and the first hints of early summer.
I have previously introduced the twenty‑four solar terms in general, yet it bears repeating: devised in ancient China, this sophisticated seasonal framework divides the sun’s path through the ecliptic into twenty‑four equal segments that track the climate’s subtle shifts. Carried to Japan alongside calendrical science in antiquity, it became an essential agricultural compass; over centuries, however, the system was gradually adapted to Japan’s distinct environment until it finally took on a locally optimised form. The Edo‑period almanac commentary Koyomi Binran (暦便覧) explains Kokuu as the time when “spring rains fall and bring forth a hundred grains (春雨降りて百穀を生化す),” and farmers have long revered it as the moment when fields receive their blessing. In the traditional agricultural calendar (農事暦), which follows the lunisolar system, the term serves as a cue to begin sowing and rice‑planting, so in many regions this season sees seedbed preparation, ploughing, and a host of related festivals.
For rural communities, then, Kokuu signals the start of an intense round of preparations. In late April, once the cherry blossoms have fallen, rice‑growing regions rush to transplant seedlings from nursery beds, and every day is filled with kōun (耕耘)—ploughing and loosening the soil. After that comes shirokaki (代掻き), leveling the flooded paddies to ready them for the main rice‑planting. As the rains that nourish “a hundred grains” fall, farm work reaches its peak, and the first step toward the autumn harvest is taken. Looking toward the mountain villages, this is also the season when edible wild greens emerge; Kokuu’s moisture quenches not only fields but also the hillsides, where new shoots burst forth. The buds of tara‑no‑me (タラの芽), one of my favorites, appear just now, signaling the start of the sansai foraging season alongside treasures like fukinoto (蕗の薹).
The rains of Kokuu also grant people a moment of calm; they mark a pause after winter and the cherry‑watching season, a final rest before the coming summer and the busy harvest months. In the countryside of old, when rain kept outdoor work at bay, families would sit beneath the overhanging eaves of wooden houses, attuning their ears to the sound of falling water, yet industrialisation has all but erased that custom. Unlike the oppressive downpours of the later monsoon, Kokuu’s gentle showers purify wandering thoughts and spread a quiet serenity through daily life. Though such settings are rare today, sitting on a veranda with a cup of tea or reading indoors while the rain provides a soft ambient soundtrack still calms the mind. In temples, too, practitioners gaze at rain‑darkened moss gardens while entering zazen meditation. Thus Kokuu’s rain teaches the value of meeting nature face to face and placing oneself within silence—a timely occasion to revisit the mindset of the Japanese who once lived by the lunisolar calendar and saw rain not as a nuisance but as a guide.
The quiet rains of Kokuu have long converged with the quiet emotions of the Japanese people, becoming a recurrent motif in literature. While few works address Kokuu by name, the broader image of haru‑same (春雨), the spring rain, has lent waka and haiku a rich sense of yojō (余情)—the lingering aftertaste of feeling—because its gentle rhythm offers both deep tranquility and peace of mind. In the Kokin Wakashū (古今和歌集) compiled for the imperial court in 905, one of its editors and a renowned poet himself, Ki no Tsurayuki writes: 【わがせこが衣はるさめ降るごとに野辺のみどりぞ色まさりける】 (Whenever your robe is wet by the spring rain, the greens of the field deepen in hue). His verse captures how each shower heightens the living colours of grass and trees, just as the quiet gift of rain at times parallels human emotion.
This emotional thread continues through later poets. Consider two haiku on the same theme by Matsuo Bashō (1644–1694). Japanese verse is famously untranslatable—its universe dissolves when rendered into another language—yet a brief gloss may help:
【春雨や 二葉に萌ゆる 茄子種】: Harusame ya ‑ futaba ni moyuru nasu no tane
Spring rain—
eggplant seeds
sprout twin leaves
【春雨や 蓑吹きかへす 川柳】: Harusame ya ‑ mino fukikaesu kawa‑yanagi
Spring rain—
a straw rain‑cloak
blown back by the river willow
Seen through the traveler’s lens, Bashō’s poems link germination—life—with movement—journey. Rain is not merely meteorological; it operates as the energy that sets every form of life in motion.
Ryōkan (1758–1831) offers another perspective:
【春雨や 友を訪ぬる 想ひあり】: Harusame ya ‑ tomo o tazunuru omoi ari
Spring rain—
an urge arises
to visit a friend
【春雨や 静になでる 破れふくべ】: Harusame ya ‑ shizu ni naderu yabure fukube
Spring rain—
softly it strokes
a torn gourd ladle
Unlike the itinerant Bashō, Ryōkan was a Sōtō Zen monk whose solitary hermitage sharpened a gentle gaze toward both people and things. Through the lens of Buddhist philosophy he sees rain as a mediator quietly reconnecting outer world and inner self, matter and spirit.
Haiku poet Kobayashi Issa (1763–1828) writes, 【春雨や隣は何をする人ぞ】(Spring rain—what is my neighbour doing?) leaving us a scene in which only the patter of rain can be heard on a leisurely spring day while a sudden curiosity drifts toward the house next door. Since ancient times such softly falling spring rain has served poets as a rich symbol of seasonal change and as a mirror reflecting the delicate aesthetics of the Japanese sensibility.
These few examples suffice to show that when the country is wrapped in the gentle spring rain of Kokuu, I too watch the cherry petals fall day after day, recalibrating a mind inclined toward hectic routines so it can slowly regain quietude and retain its peace. With the temperature rising mildly, I see this as the final preparatory period before the rush of summer: a time to reclaim silence and carve out hours for introspection. There used to be a lovely café in town called 雨音—Rain‑Sound—where at this season I would savour coffee while listening to the drizzle and reading in calm.
In this way, Kokuu is traditionally a luxurious span of stillness for the Japanese, when a soft grey sky stretches overhead, birdsong falls silent, and one listens to the rain while reflecting inwardly. Even a few days a year invite us to set modern busyness aside and handle time with deliberate care. We often call this the “luxury of doing nothing,” because by attuning to the gentle patter of rain we can revisit landscapes and inner movements that are visible only within silence; little insights and ideas, normally buried, rise one by one in rhythm with the drops.
Recently the phrase “a life of care” (丁寧な暮らし) has been voiced by the few Japanese who still value the old calendar; that lunisolar rhythm continues to offer our hearts vital awareness and quiet even today.