haiku for architecture 


winter


who can stay indoors

on such a day with the sun

dazzling on new snow!

 


lonely umbrella

passing the house at twilight

first snow falling soft



cold winter shower

see all the people running

across Seta Bridge



a boy not ten years old

they are giving to the temple!

oh, it’s cold!



it’s chilly does the priest

to the temple return



my eyes

having observed everything,

returned to the white chrysanthemums. 



a mountain village: 

under the piled-up snow

the sound of water



above the ruins

of a shrine, a chestnut tree

still lifts its candles.



“yes, come in” I cried

but at the windy snow-hung gate

knocking still went on. 



it’s cold—and I wait 

for someone to shelter me

and take me from here.

 


around existence twine 

(oh, bridge that hangs across the gorge)

ropes of twisted vine. 



to reject the grid

disruptions and distractions

come lightly salted.



a bent half chest

the lid won’t fit. 



in that space between 

stands another fervent thought

unsaid and unheard



the harder the line

the softer the sound may be

‘ere silence is spent.



did you add a note

saying “don’t make it shitty”

on your drawing set? 



live a tail a time

this truth a dream suspend press

interpretation 



a man, just one-

also a fly, just one-

in the huge drawing room.



the next room’s light, 

that too goes out, and now-

the chill of night. 



the mountain temple here:

from its covered porches come

voices of deer…



Astumori’s tomb-

and here there is not even

a cherry tree to bloom.



underpaid I am. 

“intern” carries no respect

should have been a waitress



leadership presents 

don’t worry, i have gray hair

feeling better now. 



a deer along with it, 

the mountain’s shadow at the temple gate-

the setting sun.



banked fires; night grows late-

then comes a sound of rapping

at the gate



leaning upon staves

and white-hared - a whole family

visiting the graves. 



our old family dog

trots ahead to show the way

to grandfather’s grave. 



bright the full moon shines:

on the matting of the floor, 

shadows of the pines. 



a lovely thing to see: 

through the paper window’s hole, 

the Galaxy. 

 


icy the moonshine: 

shadow of a tombstone, 

shadow of a pine, 



a hungry owl hoots

and hides in a wayside shrine…

so bright is the moon



leading me along

my shadow goes back home,

from looking at the moon.



on the temple bell

has settled, and is fast asleep, 

a butterfly



til that last night falls

dimly upon swollen ground

in shadow and doubt



on the shelf light the light

the last night of the year



architecture works

yet it is always sleeping

in its creator



spring > 


< autumn