Sitting quietly, doing nothing, Spring comes, and the grass grows, by itself.
The basis of art is change in the universe.
Fresh spring! / The world is only Nine days old - / These fields and mountains!
Farewell, my old fan. / Having scribbled on it, / What could I do but tear it / At the end of summer?
The desire to break the silence with constant human noise is, I believe, precisely an avoidance of the sacred terror of that divine encounter.
This autumn- why am I growing old? bird disappearing among clouds.