Winter garden, the moon thinned to a thread, insects singing.

Around existence twine, (Oh, bridge that hangs across the gorge!) ropes of twisted vine.

Even in Kyoto/Hearing the cuckoo's cry/I long for Kyoto

The old pond, ah! A frog jumps in: The water's sound.

Without bitterest cold that penetrates to the very bone, how can plum blossoms send forth their fragrance all over the world?

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.

On a bare branch a crow is perched - autumn evening