Once upon a time, there was a wise, old Taoist priest
who got the least from the most & the most from the least.
If he offered a snack,
you'd be bursting your slacks,
but expect empty plates when he'd call for a feast.
Whose woods these are I think I know. His house is in the village though; He will not see me stopping here To watch his woods fill up with snow. My little horse must think it queer To stop without a farmhouse near Between the woods and frozen lake The darkest evening of the year. He gives his harness bells a shake To ask if there is some mistake. The only other sound's the sweep Of easy wind and downy flake. The woods are lovely, dark and deep. But I have promises to keep, And miles to go before I sleep, And miles to go before I sleep.
Trapped on the island by typhoon. It's evening dark, though at high noon. The waves are wild and still rising. So, ferries won't be running soon. The few streets there are lie silent, but - seaside - the winds whip violent. We hide inside a bungalow, and hope it's fixed firmer than my tent. One 's always where it's most remote when they cancel all ferryboats: where there're too many thoughts to think, and few distractive antidotes.
under dark clouds; yon hills at once bombarded with light- & rainbands.
branches hang strong
against the dense clusters
of yellow trumpets.
“turn left to go right”:
branches sweep around in arcs,
is the tree moving?
sitting on a rock, feet dangling in the stream, thwarting summer heat.
the bushy tree in the temple wall isn't so claustrophobic as I.
people sit in sand, and look to the water -- ignoring dark clouds.
from valley shadow, the sun-warmed mountain glows more brightly.
Tiger Riding for Beginners 