So many hills I have seen
That grow so soft and thick and green.
Though jagged rocks sit down below
The grass and shrubs and weeds that grow
Through cracks and gaps, in mud patches --
Sprawling wide from tight-knit batches
That stone cannot constrain or kill.
summer grasses
wave atop a once mighty fort
that's gone to seed.
old stone bridge:
weeds grow in its cracks,
its river ran dry.
All it takes is one thin crack, and
A fine flurry of blowing seed.
And nature takes back all that land --
Wall-to-wall with growing weeds.
roses in peak bloom,
but butterflies prefer
the weeds below.
the graveyard weeds
are blossoming in yellow
to garland the tombs.
from old stone ruins
grow hardy weeds, raising
flowery heads skyward.
Tiger Riding for Beginners 