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71- (Visipix.com)


When Autumn winds blow,

the man who washes his feet

is truly grounded.




A servant grasps me.

What kind of master has he?

He must be like him.




In the blossom time,

even the drunks have a right

to gaze on beauty.




Maybe it’s as well

the goddess didn’t answer

my humble prayer.




Unfulfilled promise:

the reliable seasons

shame your fickleness.




In the eye of storms,

we pit ourselves ‘gainst Nature

and  just try our best.




A stream divided

by a rock may still unite,

like love, downriver.




The distillation

of sake may smooth our lives,

or may roughen them.




Sometimes it is hard

to see if the moon or clouds

are moving.  A torch!




This morning my hair

is as tousled as my thoughts.

Will he care at all?