“The oak tree: not interested in cherry blossoms.”

A weathered skeleton in windy fields of memory, piercing like a knife.

Every moment of life is the last, every poem is a death poem.

Come, butterfly It’s late- We’ve miles to go together.

How I long to see among dawn flowers, the face of God.

April’s air stirs in Willow-leaves, a butterfly Floats and balances.

There is nothing you can see that is not a flower; there is nothing you can think that is not the moon.

I hope to have gathered To repay your kindness The willow leaves Scattered in the garden.

A flute with no holes is not a flute.

Go to the object. Leave your subjective preoccupation with yourself. Do not impose yourself on the object. Become one with the object. Plunge deep enough into the object to see something like a hidden glimmering there.

Learn how to listen as things speak for themselves.

A thicket of summer grass / Is all that remains / Of the dreams of ancient warriors.

For this lovely bowl let us arrange these flowers since there is no rice.

Old dark sleepy pool… Quick unexpected frog Goes plop! Watersplash!

Old pond, frog jumps in – plop.

The journey itself is my home.

With every gust of wind, the butterfly changes its place on the willow.

From each scar today bloom the flowers of a kinder tomorrow.

Every flower blooms at their own pace, dear. Watch your own growth, not others’ one.

I remind myself that I am capable of growing flowers from rain and building mountains from dirt.

If a home is where the heart is, I guess my home left with you. Please remember to water the flowers.

I am made of flowers, the kind that always grow back even after the frost.

The moon felt brighter, I smelt flowers as if they bloomed in winter and felt the sun bless my skin in darkness. My mind was healing and i could feel again.

Flowers grew where her feet followed and trees bowed above her head, but in her garden there were secrets beneath that soil, she could not forget.

Earth is a place where we learn to fly in human form. We all gather here in the miraculous place where a tiny seed grows a flower with its own smell or a tree that casts shade onto the land of people.