In this poor body, composed of one hundred bones and nine openings, is something called spirit, a flimsy curtain swept this way and that by the slightest breeze. It is spirit, such as it is, which led me to poetry, at first little more than a pastime, then the full business of my life. There have been times when my spirit, so dejected, almost gave up the quest, other times when it was proud, triumphant. So it has been from the very start, never finding peace with itself, always doubting the worth of what it makes.

Before enlightenment, chopping wood and carrying water. After enlightenment, chopping wood and carrying water.

From all these trees, in the salads, the soup, everywhere, cherry blossoms fall.

Between our two lives there is also the life of the cherry blossom.

Every moment of life is the last, every poem is a death poem.

Old dark sleepy pool... Quick unexpected frog Goes plop! Watersplash!

Plunge Deep enough in order to see something that is hidden and glimmering.