“An autumn night – don’t think your life didn’t matter.”

Farewell, my old fan. / Having scribbled on it, / What could I do but tear it / At the end of summer?

Awakened at midnight by the sound of the water jar cracking from the ice.

Old pond, leap-splash – a frog.

No matter where your interest lies, you will not be able to accomplish anything unless you bring your deepest devotion to it.

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.

Autumn can be glorious but menacing too – the long shadows, brisk winds, scurrying leaves, impending frost.

The autumn breeze carves out an ache in your memory.

Let love cover me, just like the leaves on pavements like blankets in fall.

On a bare branch a crow is perched – autumn evening.

When I speak My lips feel cold – The autumn wind.

Sadly, I part from you; Like a clam torn from its shell, I go, and autumn too.

This autumn- why am I growing old? bird disappearing among clouds.

I think autumn can teach us a lot about love. About how muh beauty can be hidden in layers of change.