I felt quite at home, / As if it were mine sleeping lazily / In this house of fresh air.
Why so scrawny, cat? Starving for fat fish or mice... Or backyard love?
The journey itself is my home.
Clapping my hands with the echoes the summer moon begins to dawn.
Harvest moon: around the pond I wander and the night is gone.
When composing a verse let there not be a hair's breath separating your mind from what you write; composition of a poem must be done in an instant, like a woodcutter felling a huge tree or a swordsman leaping at a dangerous enemy.