Spring rain conveyed under the trees in drops.
A flute with no holes is not a flute.
Around existence twine, (Oh, bridge that hangs across the gorge!) ropes of twisted vine.
If I had the knack I'd sing like Cherry flakes falling
Real poetry, is to lead a beautiful life. To live poetry is better than to write it.
Why so scrawny, cat? Starving for fat fish or mice... Or backyard love?