For This Lovely Bowl Let Us Arrange

Every Day Is A Journey, And The Journey Itself Is Home.

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.

On A Bare Branch A Crow Is Perched - Autumn Evening

Along My Journey / Through This Transitory World, / New Year's Housecleaning.

Friends Part Foreverwild Geese Lost In Cloud