What is important is to keep our mind high in the world of true understanding, and returning to the world of our daily experience to seek therein the truth of beauty. No matter what we may be doing at a given moment, we must not forget that is has a bearing upon our everlasting self which is poetry.

Winter garden, the moon thinned to a thread, insects singing.

The desire to break the silence with constant human noise is, I believe, precisely an avoidance of the sacred terror of that divine encounter.

Sitting quietly, doing nothing, Spring comes, and the grass grows, by itself.

Every moment of life is the last, every poem is a death poem.

When I speak My lips feel cold - The autumn wind.

Felling a tree and gazing at the cut end - tonight's moon