Clapping my hands with the echoes the summer moon begins to dawn.
Go to the object. Leave your subjective preoccupation with yourself. Do not impose yourself on the object. Become one with the object. Plunge deep enough into the object to see something like a hidden glimmering there.
A thicket of summer grass / Is all that remains / Of the dreams of ancient warriors.
The temple bell stops but I still hear the sound coming out of the flowers.
Winter garden, the moon thinned to a thread, insects singing.
Why so scrawny, cat? Starving for fat fish or mice... Or backyard love?