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
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.