At The Ancient Pond The

A Thicket Of Summer Grass / Is All That Remains / Of The Dreams Of Ancient Warriors.

Now The Swinging Bridge Is Quieted With Creepers ... Like Our Tendrilled Life.

In This Poor Body, Composed Of One Hundred Bones And Nine Openings, Is Something Called Spirit, A Flimsy Curtain Swept This Way And That By The Slightest Breeze. It Is Spirit, Such As It Is, Which Led Me To Poetry, At First Little More Than A Pastime, Then The Full Business Of My Life. There Have Been Times When My Spirit, So Dejected, Almost Gave Up The Quest, Other Times When It Was Proud, Triumphant. So It Has Been From The Very Start, Never Finding Peace With Itself, Always Doubting The Worth Of What It Makes.

With Every Gust Of Wind, The Butterfly Changes Its Place On The Willow.

Ballet In The Air... Twin Butterflies Until, Twice White They Meet, They Mate