Sun treasured in the heart of the bitter melon, Poetry made of steam rising from a bowl of soup in Winter. The wind is lurking outside, swirling. Poetry is back to haunt the old hills and prairies. Yet the poor thatched hut remains on the river shore, waiting.
Spring carries poetry in its drizzle. The fire sparkles poetry in its orange flame.
Sunshine stored in the heart of the fragrant wood, Warm smoke leading poetry back to the pages Of an unofficial history book Sunshine, though absent from space, Fills then now rose-colored stove.
Sunshine reaching out takes the color of smoke; Poetry in its stillness, the color of the misty air.
Spring rain holds poetry in its drops Which bend down to kiss the soil, So that the seeds may sprout. Following the rain, poetry comes to dwell on each leaf. Sunshine has a green color, and poetry a pink one. Bees deliver warmth to the flowers from the sunshine They carry on their wings. On sunshine footsteps to the deep forest, Poetry drinks the nectar with joy. With the excitement of celebration, butterflies and bees crowd the Earth. Sunshine makes up the dance, and poetry the song.
Drops of sweat fall on the hard ground. Poems fly along the furrows. The hoe handily on my shoulder, poetry flows from the breath. Sunshine wanes away down the river, and the silhouette of the late afternoon lingers reluctantly. Poetry is leaving for the horizon where the King of Light is blanketing himself in clouds.
A green sun found in a basketful of fresh vegetables, a tasty and well-cooked sun smells delicious in a bowl of rice.
Poetry looks with a child’s eyes. Poetry feels with a weather-beaten face. Poetry stays within each attentive look. Poetry – the hands that work the poor and arid land somewhere far away.
The smiling sun brightening up the sunflower; the ripe and full sun hiding itself in an August peach; poetry follows each meditative step, poetry lines up the pages.
Discreetly, within closed food packages, poetry nurtures love.
Thich Nhat Hanh
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