The shadow of a frog flutters over the overflowing pond.
The warmth of the sunlight, the refreshing chirping of a sparrow on a small hill.
Things seen on the outskirts of the autumnal town are what poetry is made of.
The white soba flowers, the yellow ears of rice plants, and villages upon villages.

All of the poems we have introduced so far were written by the master of this garden, Takaaki Kyogoku. This man, who was said to have read over 10,000 Chinese poems in his lifetime, searched all over looking for material for his poems. He felt he couldn’t compose poems in a large, elaborate group, and so he would travel with a small entourage and lightweight equipment. Some would even claim that you couldn’t even tell he was a Daimyo.

He spent much of his time quietly in this garden. He particularly liked spending time in the summer house across the island.

The pillars of the summer house are enshrined on the upper portion of the river. The breeze blows the scent of chrysanthemums, refreshing as the Autumnal season. Dusk at sunset comes, and though the moon has yet to rise from behind the mountains, smoke from the bonfires of fishermen working in the night can be seen rising in the distance.

As the rain lets up, the clouds and fog blur the lines between ocean and sky. Here and there, sailboats can be seen cutting through the light breeze. Pond water soaks the roots of the bamboo thicket growing on the shore, while the tree branches shimmer with an emerald green. The frost dyes the crimson leaves of the maple trees. As you raise the bamboo shades, the sunlight filters in. If you lean against the railing, the shadows of clouds reflect onto your sake cup.

Somewhere in the distance, I hear the sound of a star snapper, but I can’t place where its coming from. A papyrus boat passes through the thicket of reeds and continues eastward.

A gentle light illuminates the garden, and the complex shadow of bamboo dyes the room blue. A mandarin duck floats along the surface of the pond. A dragonfly flutters lightly. The wind carries the smoke away. And yet, the gathering of the year’s first frost upon the gutters last night is a harbinger of bitter cold days.

What is most interesting is that most of his poems focus on things such as light, sounds, and scents; the mundanities that surround our restless lives.

We’re now standing in that same garden 300 years later. We are breathing in the stillness of this beautifully maintained space; the sounds of the birds and insects, of the jumping fish and lotus flowers opening. The sounds of a light breeze surround us from all directions. Gazing upon the fallen feather of a white heron resting on the Azalea tree, I imagine where the bird has gone to now.

With the passage of time, the scenery outside of the garden has changed. The garden has also seen various repairs over time. Even so, the quaint sounds and scents of life remain preserved here for us to experience.