The feet of the heron,
under those bamboo stems,
hold the blue body,
the great beak
above the shallows

Hello, sun in my face.
Hello, you who make the morning
and spread it over the fields
and into the faces of the tulips
and the nodding morning glories,

Don’t call this world adorable, or
It’s frisky, and a theater for mor
The eyelash of lightning is neithe
The struck tree burns like a pilla
But the blue rain sinks, straight

In winter
all the singing is in
the tops of the trees
where the wind-bird
with its white eyes

The first fish
I ever caught
would not lie down
quiet in the pail
but flailed and sucked

There is, all around us,
this country
of original fire.
You know what I mean.
The sky, after all, stops at nothi

Who made the world?
Who made the swan, and the black b
Who made the grasshopper?
This grasshopper, I mean–
the one who has flung herself out

The river
Of my childhood,
That tumbled
Down a passage of rocks
And cut-work ferns,

Every morning
the world
is created.
Under the orange
sticks of the sun

The spirit
likes to dress up like this:
ten fingers,
ten toes,
shoulders, and all the rest