Dry creek glimpsed by lightning
before the gate -- my walking stick's made a river of melting snow
Carrying a poppy he passes through the quarrel.
To the fuki plant, dandelions, and their kind that lie for long patiently under the fallen snow, comes the season of breezy spring. No sooner do they see the light of the world, stretching their longing heads out from the cracks in the snow, than they are instantly nipped off. For these plants isn't the sorrow as deep as that of the child's parents whose child had accidentally died? They say everything in the plant and tree kingdom attains Buddhahood. Then they, too, must have Buddha-nature.
On the Death of his Child Dew Evaporates And all our world is dew...so dear, So fresh, so fleeting
Face of the spring moon- about twelve years old, I'd say.
