A few haiku about my Antaiji experience:
Good fellow, next bench —
stretched out, hat pulled over head —
not snoring, not yet.
A late mountain snow.
Below, the green field patchwork
still holding it's own.
After a hot bath,
in raggityanne loaners,
she's a warm homeless.
Hands at quiet work
sorting a portion of rice
her thoughts are elsewhere.
Sitting quietly
a sudden downpour and gusts
shaking the hondo.
A homeless ghost
winds his shape through the forest.
I think of his face.
Rushing streams gouge out
new paths in the mountainside,
my paths lead to you.
Four visiting monks,
laughing, play with the children,
smoke, drink beer, eat cake.
Cleaning out the bugs
from ashes of ancestors —
A fine remembrance!
All the walls fallen
the small I that once was now
transparent as wind.
Early spring morning —
monks rake the pine needles off
one hundred eight steps.
Continuous rain —
day spent cutting and glueing
shoji paper strips.
A bit like sitting
in snow this early morning
and no socks allowed.
Late in land of Oz
Thoughts cloud over a cold moon.
Winds stir old tea leaves.
Collecting wild eats —
Warabib and soft zenmai —
Your morning harvest.
