Is the soul solid, like iron? Or is it tender and breakable, lik… the wings of a moth in the beak of… Who has it, and who doesn’t? I keep looking around me.

The feet of the heron, under those bamboo stems, hold the blue body, the great beak above the shallows

Look, the trees are turning their own bodies into pillars of light,

You do not have to be good. You do not have to walk on your kn… for a hundred miles through the de… You only have to let the soft anim… love what it loves.

On a summer morning I sat down on a hillside to think about God – a worthy pastime.

Don’t call this world adorable, or… It’s frisky, and a theater for mor… The eyelash of lightning is neithe… The struck tree burns like a pilla… But the blue rain sinks, straight…

One day you finally knew what you had to do, and began, though the voices around you kept shouting their bad advice—

Meditation is old and honorable, s… not sit, every morning of my life,… looking into the shining world? Be… attended to, delight, as well as h… Can one be passionate about the ju…

The river Of my childhood, That tumbled Down a passage of rocks And cut-work ferns,

“For example, what the trees do not only in lightning storms or the watery dark of a summer’s n… or under the white nets of winter but now, and now, and now—whenever

Today again I am hardly myself. It happens over and over. It is heaven-sent. It flows through me like the blue wave.

Hello, sun in my face. Hello, you who make the morning and spread it over the fields and into the faces of the tulips and the nodding morning glories,

All winter the water has crashed over the cold the cold sand. Now it breaks over the thin branch of your body.

Every morning the world is created. Under the orange sticks of the sun

She steps into the dark swamp where the long wait ends. The secret slippery package drops to the weeds. She leans her long neck and tongue…