In the spring rain, The pond and the river Have become one.

In pale moonlight / the wisteria's scent / comes from far away.

White dew- one drop on each thorn

in my garden I pick a musk melon feeling like a thief

Young leaves The sound of a waterfall Heard from far and near.

The end of spring- the poet is brooding about editors.

Throw open your window and let the scenery of clouds and sky enter your room.