The temple bell stops but I still hear the sound coming out of the flowers.
Along my journey / through this transitory world, / new year's housecleaning.
When your consciousness has become ripe in true zazen-pure like clear water, like a serene mountain lake, not moved by any wind-then anything may serve as a medium for realization.
Winter garden, the moon thinned to a thread, insects singing.
Seek on high bare trails Sky-reflecting violets... Mountain-top jewels
Every moment of life is the last, every poem is a death poem.