Grasses bury the river bank,
Rain darkens the village;
The temple is lost in tall bamboo
I can’t find the gate.

They’re gathering wood and brewing herbs
I’m sorry a monk is sick;
They’ve swept the ground and burned incense
It cleans my spirit.

Farm work not finished, though we’re into little snow;
Lamps lit before the Buddha,
Signal of dusk

Lately I’ve developed a taste for the quiet life.
I think how we could talk together
Through the night.