Spring rain leaking through the roof dripping from the wasps' nest.

When your consciousness has become ripe in true zazen-pure like clear water, like a serene mountain lake, not moved by any wind-then anything may serve as a medium for realization.

Harvest moon: around the pond I wander and the night is gone.

Winter solitude- in a world of one colour the sound of the wind.

Farewell, my old fan. / Having scribbled on it, / What could I do but tear it / At the end of summer?

I felt quite at home, / As if it were mine sleeping lazily / In this house of fresh air.

Ballet in the air... Twin butterflies until, twice white They Meet, they mate