Felling a tree and gazing at the cut end - tonight's moon
When I speak My lips feel cold - The autumn wind.
Farewell, my old fan. / Having scribbled on it, / What could I do but tear it / At the end of summer?
April's air stirs in Willow-leaves...a butterfly Floats and balances
Harvest moon: around the pond I wander and the night is gone.
Traveler's heart. Never settled long in one place. Like a portable fire.