“Of late the nightsare dawningplum-blossom white.”

“Standing still at dusk Listen . . . in far distances The song of froglings!”

“Calligraphy of geeseagainst the sky-the moon seals it.”

“No trail to followwhere the teacher has wandered off-the end of autumn.”

“In pale moonlight / the wisteria's scent / comes from far away.”

“I was in an empty field when I came across a tree. This tree was full of white blossoms and succulent cherries. The sun was shining and the breeze was blowing—everything was lovely. I looked back at the tree and its pure white blossoms were stained with blood. I gazed down in front of me, in horror, as a wooden cross marked the place of a small dirty mound.”

“They say, he whispers, his lips making the word-shapes on her shoulder, there is a river that heals all wounds. It is pure white, like snow or the blossoms of prarie-cotton. You are my white river. If I die, I will come back to wash my heart in you.”