clean air
even with nothing, my hands
grow still

day's end
to the last open flower
a drop of rain

winter sky
the passing road, unshaded--up
lids falling

after waiting
this poised air, released--
sound--tuning

after waiting
this deep chord--
we turn to empty seats

for spring snow
even it must wake
this late tree

in the morning
the old tree droops, black--
a nut falls to earth

in spring
robin wings to robin--
this empty cup

after the buds
have closed, I sit to write--
morning air

standing, on the
edge of green, the wind roars past--
a white tarp

or

standing, on the
edge of green, the wind roars past--
the white cloth, rippling

petrichor
in spring the verdant tresses
waves under blossoms

air as fish's breath, so
we rest under eaves--
wet feet

sleeping tree, roots
how deep--my heart
even in apathy

scene
of love transcendent--my eyes
are wet with tears

once seen, this
hillside--a chill stone, dropped
in a hotspring

in Nicaragua
discarded children--raised
with a wooden flute

the eager child
runs to the hanging fruit--weeps
at picked stems

feet bare, in bare
sand, I walk--always mindful
of seashells

the green cloth, held
in a new wind--let the birds
come again

in summer, soft
in lights dying, this still pool...
here rest my heart

coconuts
how small, swimming in a
balsamic sea

as the wind blows
the dog cherry tapers off
like a tail
Basho

in the wind
tail streaming--the grass
a scattered mirror

In walking, ones thoughts become still. This is not to say that time stops; instead, in peace, each moment becomes clear, bright, as if seen through crystal infinitely delicate, held to the eye in wonder. In walking, I have felt these moments.
I saw once a great tree, standing beside the wooded trail. Approaching, I laid my hand on the roughness of its bark--and in doing so my heart was lifted, and reverence fell upon me, as dew blown from the highest boughs. I bowed my head, silent. Then I continued on my way.

as the lifting
of the gossam veil
this deep tree

bright mist
cold, the moon's rim hangs
yet young their song

white road
sound--the grey fox
turns to flight

message, at day's close--
the woodpecker
knocks again

in the cool room
desks, white light
my head slowly nods

frustration
worm bores the heart--whistle
the woodpecker comes

frustration
as tea's steam, I must learn
to let it go

the film ends--
within
too hot for tears
outside, the trees
drink deep

words, on a
glowing screen
a leaf falls to rest

soft, in
day's darkening, when
a flower blooms

in the bright morn wind blows the clouds lights shine

stone vase so somber rests ducks meet

in reading
of the poet's death, Imaoka--
stone falls on stone

pen scratching
on, eyes strain--
yet another blank page

small flowers
clustered, at mound's base
ant's garden

as sweet water
falling, in the first month
when glad my soul

compassion
such beauty...my heart
aches, in musics' sway

Green sea
still, the waves--so tired
my aching feet.

Cobwebs--
so they shimmer, as nets
of pearls strewn.

How abundant!
roadside jewels, bright
in mornings dew.

Plant grows
as mint--I stoop
but no.

Fair yet not-fair--
within the green
blue joist.

Ridge
gap-grown; root
bare in earth.

Bare stem on
ground upright--on its limb
the flower-plume.

Among the trash
wanton strewn
a golden flower.

Tall trees, bare
limbs straight; at their feet
how green the mead!

Standing
yet another grass-grown road--
the gate is open!

By the roadside
five lone purple flowers
among the clover.