Not to think of yourself / as someone who did not count -- / Festival of the Souls.
Don't imitate me / we are not two halves / of a muskmelon.
April's air stirs in Willow-leaves...a butterfly Floats and balances
Ballet in the air... Twin butterflies until, twice white They Meet, they mate
Winter garden, the moon thinned to a thread, insects singing.
Clapping my hands with the echoes the summer moon begins to dawn.