April's air stirs in Willow-leaves...a butterfly Floats and balances
Don't imitate me / we are not two halves / of a muskmelon.
Real poetry, is to lead a beautiful life. To live poetry is better than to write it.
I am one who eats breakfast gazing at morning glories.
Every day is a journey, and the journey itself is home.
Around existence twine, (Oh, bridge that hangs across the gorge!) ropes of twisted vine.