May 05th, 2021

A white haired old monk
at home in a hut
the wind has torn my robe into rags
at the edge of a stream
I rake leaves for my stove
after a frost I weave covers for orange trees
what's basically real isn't created
ready-made koans
aren't worth a thought
all day I sit by an open window
looking at mountains not lowering the screen

Stonehouse (1272-1352)