(1715–1783)
PRIESTLY poverty—
he carves a wooden Buddha
through a long cold night
[S.H.]
CLINGING to the bell,
he dozes so peacefully,
this new butterfly
[S.H.]
THE camellia tips,
the remains of last night’s rain
splashing out
[S.H.]
WITH no underrobes,
bare butt suddenly exposed—
a gust of spring wind
[S.H.]
SWEET springtime showers,
and no words can express
how sad it all is
[S.H.]
HEAD pillowed on arm,
such affection for myself!
and this smoky moon
[S.H.]
THE late evening crow
of deep autumn longing
suddenly cries out
[S.H.]
IN a bitter wind
a solitary monk bends
to words cut in stone
[S.H.]
THIS cold winter night,
that old wooden-head Buddha
would make a nice fire
[S.H.]
UTTER aloneness—
another great pleasure
in autumn twilight
[S.H.]
NOBLY, the great priest
deposits his daily stool
in bleak winter fields
[S.H.]