The Old Pond, Ah! A

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

A Weathered Skeleton In Windy Fields Of Memory, Piercing Like A Knife.

When Your Consciousness Has Become Ripe In True Zazen-pure Like Clear Water, Like A Serene Mountain Lake, Not Moved By Any Wind-then Anything May Serve As A Medium For Realization.

Sadly, I Part From You; Like A Clam Torn From Its Shell, I Go, And Autumn Too.

I Am One Who Eats Breakfast Gazing At Morning Glories.