When all thoughts
Are exhausted
I slip into the woods
And gather
A pile of shepherd’s purse.
Blending with the wind,
Snow falls;
Blending with the snow,
The wind blows.
By the hearth
I stretch out my legs,
Idling my time away
Confined in this hut.
Counting the days,
I find that February, too,
Has come and gone
Like a dream.
Like the little stream
Making its way
Through the mossy crevices
I, too, quietly
Turn clear and transparent.
Shundo David Haye 