When the blackberries hang swollen in the woods, in the bramb… nobody owns, I spend all day among the high branches, reaching

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

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

Last night in the fields I lay down in the darkness to think about death, but instead I fell asleep,

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,

Come with me into the field of sunflowers. Their faces are burnished disks, their dry spines creak like ship masts,

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…

I know someone who kisses the way a flower opens, but more rapidly. Flowers are sweet. They have short, beatific lives. They offer much pleasure. There is

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

Needing one, I invented her— the great-great-aunt dark as hicko… called Shining-Leaf, or Drifting… or The-Beauty-of-the-Night. Dear aunt, I’d call into the leav…

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…

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

Meditation is old and honorable, s… not sit, every morning of my life,… looking into the shining world? Be… attended to, delight, as well as h… Can one be passionate about the ju…

Is the soul solid, like iron? Or is it tender and breakable, lik… the wings of a moth in the beak of… Who has it, and who doesn’t? I keep looking around me.