Life is poetic.

Its meaning lays beneath the surface.
Each drop of rain
imparts a different tone,
yet the rushing sound remains the same.
It’s we, I, you, who hear a range of melody.

In a garden,
in a park,
in the center of Osaka,
two offset stone slabs
create a bridge from here to there.

What’s seen as simple —
a passage across
the water in the garden —
tells tales of philosophy and history
and a way to see the world.

Like the soul,
conveyed through words
as drops of ink,
the bridge evokes
a perfect imperfection.
Balanced, yet misaligned;
stone steps lead to a small island
in the center of the pond.
It rises like a mountain.

There’s a dragon,
and a ship
made of nothing but rock.
My imagination tells me so.

Black pine trees and red maple leaves;
I drink their earthy scent.
The cloudy sky turns the pond opaque;
what lurks beneath its surface?
It’s as wild as the sea.
A gentle gust of wind inspires
yellow leaves from their branches.

They sway into the pond — setting sail.
What a nourishing sound,
The continuous rustling of the leaves.
I hear them fall
and touch the ground.