Red bell tower with a cotton lining; one dark-suited crow for a clapper.
The night birds chant a song of virgules only. When I wake, the fields have throats lined with frogs’ mating songs.
In the shallows, what makes the cheeks of the lotus bulge?
I squinted up into the trees and saw the face of the Buddha pressed on each green globe dangling.
Dear tufted seed lying in the maw of thunder, I raise my cup to be blessed.
In response to Via Negativa: Farmer.