echoes from the canyon walls —
raindrops on the river.
The sounds of rocks bouncing off rocks;
the shadows of trees traced on trees.
I sit, still.
The canyon river chants,
The sermon spun on the still point:
dropping off eternity, picking up time;
letting go of self, awakened to Mind…..
A haiku is not a poem, it is not literature; it is a hand becoming,
a door half-opened, a mirror wiped clean. It is a way of returning
to nature, to our moon nature, our cherry blossom nature, our
falling leaf nature, in short, to our Buddha nature. It is a way in
which the cold winter rain, the swallows of evening, even the very
day in its hotness, and the length of the night, become truly
alive, share in our humanity, speak their own silent
and expressive language……..
Yellow young spring
Sky full of hope
Future won’t come.
Frenzy of insects
Heat of our star
The past has dissolved.
Red humid forest
Light rays in fog
Black naked trees
White topping of snow
A perfect year gone……
peace and harmony…