Words lie still, silent
on the page. Eyes move: voices
sound inside my head.
Flying through sunlight
reflections off feathers' sheen
make the crow look white.
The glow of the moon
rising behind the rooftop
of the house next door.
The waning moon
rises this morning, pale white
in a bright blue sky.
Swallow a mouthful
of water: sensation fades.
It's now part of you.
In sunlight leaves make
water sugar: but what do
leaves do in the dark?
Sunset on the lake:
flickering atop the waves,
unquenchable fire.
Winds on the pond's face
cast their flickering shadows
on its unmoved floor.
Waving blades of grass
each in separate motion
blown by the one wind.
A tree reaches up,
branching out: a forked bolt of
lightning strikes it down.
Alone in the woods
I must be glad; the cricket
chirrups cheerfully.
I light my candle
and wonder why moths do not
fly toward the moon.
How can I sleep now
amid such silent splendor?
Moonlight bathes my hut.
Even a candle's
rude light now offends my eye.
How soft is the moon!
My thoughts this evening
nod like leaves; a mosquito
lights there, on my arm.
I breathe a great sigh:
breeze drops rivulets of rain
from the still green leaves.
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