This autumn-
why am I growing old?
bird disappearing among clouds.

Winter solitude-
in a world of one colour
the sound of the wind.

Old pond — frogs jumped in — sound of water

When composing a verse let there not be a hair's breath separating your mind from what you write; composition of a poem must be done in an instant, like a woodcutter felling a huge tree or a swordsman leaping at a dangerous enemy.

Awakened at midnight
by the sound of the water jar
cracking from the ice

April's air stirs in
Willow-leaves...a butterfly
Floats and balances