Felling a tree and gazing at the cut end - tonight's moon
From all these trees, in the salads, the soup, everywhere, cherry blossoms fall.
Winter garden, the moon thinned to a thread, insects singing.
A thicket of summer grass / Is all that remains / Of the dreams of ancient warriors.
Nothing in the cry of cicadas suggests they are about to die
Sitting quietly, doing nothing, Spring comes, and the grass grows, by itself.