Hard rock door of the tearoom open after hours After hours the door open to chilly fog

My umbrella remains tightly wound—- summer rain

It’s said the longing to be shows forth the inner self. A patch of old snow.

Chanting the name of the already-not yet One from my single bed

Maybe there’s a comparison between Koan and haiku. Both stop you from thinking with more words. A moment free of words? Maybe for some a thought-clearing moment. So many words!

The house shakes as the snowplow passes in the night.

My scalp tingles as I eat Thai curry and watch the snow