Spring Rain Conveyed Under The Trees In

From All These Trees, In The Salads, The Soup, Everywhere, Cherry Blossoms Fall.

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

My Body, Now Close To Fifty Years Of Age, Has Become An Old Tree That Bears Bitter Peaches, A Snail Which Has Lost Its Shell, A Bagworm Separated From Its Bag; It Drifts With The Winds And Clouds That Know No Destination. Morning And Night I Have Eaten Traveler's Fare, And Have Held Out For Alms A Pilgrim's Wallet.

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.

The Oak Tree: Not Interested In Cherry Blossoms.