What a strange thing!to be alivebeneath cherry blossoms.

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

Voll Blüten steht der Pfirsichbaum nicht jede wächst zur Frucht sie schimmern hell wie Rosenschaum durch Blau und Wolkenflucht. Wie Blüten geh'n Gedanken auf hundert an jedem Tag -- lass' blühen, lass' dem Ding den Lauf frag' nicht nach dem Ertrag! Es muss auch Spiel und Unschuld sein und Blütenüberfluss sonst wär' die Welt uns viel zu klein und Leben kein Genuss.

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

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

My love will not wither awayLike the momentous beauty of a Rose,But I am the weed, no matter how much you pluck awayIt sprouts again and grows…"-(Precious Love)

When we are smitten, we await love to be “remontant” and to be blooming over and over again”, like remontant roses, with blossoms scenting through all the seasons of life. Passion and patience are to be good allies, though.

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...

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

As the flower blooms in spring, compassion grows in mindfulness.

One has to get rid of the self. Once the self is thrown away, nothing is lacking. You start overflowing and blossoms start falling on you.

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.

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

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.