Every Day Is A Journey, And The

In This Poor Body, Composed Of One Hundred Bones And Nine Openings, Is Something Called Spirit, A Flimsy Curtain Swept This Way And That By The Slightest Breeze. It Is Spirit, Such As It Is, Which Led Me To Poetry, At First Little More Than A Pastime, Then The Full Business Of My Life. There Have Been Times When My Spirit, So Dejected, Almost Gave Up The Quest, Other Times When It Was Proud, Triumphant. So It Has Been From The Very Start, Never Finding Peace With Itself, Always Doubting The Worth Of What It Makes.

I Felt Quite At Home, / As If It Were Mine Sleeping Lazily / In This House Of Fresh Air.

Calm And Serene The Sound Of A Cicada Penetrates The Rock.

Ballet In The Air... Twin Butterflies Until, Twice White They Meet, They Mate

Year's End, All Corners Of This Floating World, Swept.