Trust dies but mistrust blossoms.

Someday I will walk under the soul-blossom tree with my hand eternally woven in yours.

A poet is a verb that blossoms light in gardens of dawn, or sometimes midnight.

What a strange thing!To be alivebeneath cherry blossoms.

Approaching the Start of Civil ExamsPerhaps I was once a young Chinese scholarapproaching the start of civil exams,my mind grown weary and sad from seclusionwith books on syntax and poetic style.All that I knew were the mist-covered mountainsand sweet white blossoms of mountain applesthat grew in the valleys of my province.But I had been gone over six yearsbusy with studies in the Heavenly Cityempty and thin despite my work.I showed my verses to an older poetwho told me a truth I longed to believe:all knowledge is futile and barrenwhich does not open the love of your friends.

Street children are lovely blossoms just dropped from the tree after a heavy storm. Now they need to be put together with a needle and threads of security and shelter to live into a beautiful circle of life’s garland.

Love is the only flower that blooms and blossoms without the aid of seasons.

Blossoms shower, and then they go on showering—they never stop. The blossoms that showered for Buddha are still showering. The blossoms that showered for Subhuti are still showering.

My bridled soul leaps under the pressure of desires,Chained I am by this organic-societal form from galloping freeMy mind heaves me to safety,but heart is ready for doom...An all knowing glance pierced deep through my skinSmiling at my ailing and confused form,Invading my senses, feeding them to the eternal fires...

A fallen blossomreturning to the bough, I thought --But no, a butterfly.