The speaker is stuck in a kind of restless, unnamed longing. The opening lines admit it plainly: waiting for what? They don't know. Unable to sort out their pain alone, they head to the temple hoping someone or something will answer, though the poem never says that anyone does.
The images that follow are quiet and cold. The speaker's questions drop like yellow leaves onto frozen ground, which suggests that their suffering is piling up and has nowhere to go. Even the questions have to wait, for rain to turn to snow and for the moon to return. That moon becomes a "blue blossom" in an empty forest, a strange, beautiful image that feels distant and out of reach. Not even the watchful crow is home.
The mood is lonely, hushed, and suspended. There's patience here, but also unease: the world seems to be waiting along with the speaker, and nothing is there to give comfort.