untitled

In seasonal rain
along a nameless river
fear too has no name

Buson
(1716-1784)

I am not bound for any public place, but for ground of my own where I have planted vines and orchard trees, and in the heat of the day climbed up into the healing shadow of the woods.  Better than any argument is to rise at dawn and pick dew-wet red berries in a cup.

Wendell Berry
weeding together
even the thorns are
gentle

*

country town
the pioneer cemetery
in a backyard

*


plastic bags
all along the creek bed
white butterflies


Myron Lysenko
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