twilight
there on the waters edge
a shells beginning

or

sunset
there on the waters edge
a shells beginning

dragging wood
now at the end of a long day
a song for weariness

dragging wood
now at the end of a long day
an easy task

monument
now upon the faded ground there lies
one more feather

simplicity
now in the flickering of a new bulb
a look-alike

wondering
perhaps in the ocean's spray
a ghost's habitation

turning inward
spring green bends to blended white
a small vase

knowing the answer
in a porcelain vase the deutzia
is slowly wilting

glistening
there beyond the hedge is
a gibbous moon

perhaps after
four or five winters it will come
splitting raindrops

anticipation
listening to this track in the dim
in place of food

after searching, at last
I find it
a great block of many names
softly the dark pines
sigh with my heart

seeing the effect
in the place of adonis now
is a sapling

or

seeing the effect
now in the place of adonis
there is a sapling

twisting fish
now they turn and do it again in a space
of six or seven inches

these fish
swimming in a barren world
our eyes reflected

dried plum
now at the pivot I turn
a lump of dirt

for nine days
cupboard dust has smoothed it
affection

for nine days
dust has smoothed it
this worn cup

for nine days
this worn cup has lain untouched
wake-up call

what chance
meeting in a locked door
two kinds of fortune

locked out
with no other recourse I look
up at the stars

or

locked out
in the quiet between scattered lights
star viewing

even now
rain soaked roots are withering
reminiscence

this growing town
perhaps it will learn
fallen seedpod

fallen seedpod
now curb your appetite
you sparrows

hanging red
beneath an old nest
branches

winter echo
buds
and an empty nest

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