I
We are adrift in sunshine and birdsong.
The green fields turning golden hay.
Grandchildren like chirping sparrows.
Fresh breeze from the hills.
Nothing to report,
Lost in time and space……
II
Basho by the pond.
—
Pausing,
He turns to listen:
The sound
Of one hand
Clapping.
—
(Some more words scribbled down from my diary. It’s been a busy summer. Just recently missed a great flurry of strong words. It’s so important to write when those times arise, as the fuel that fires the flow is soon consumed..)
simonhlilly 
Sometimes seem to arrive in a rush and emerge as is. At other times I find they need to be ferment and require some loving attention. Please note that this is a general reply to your comment rather than a comment of mine upon your writing.
I agree. But I rarely, now, worry about the ‘quality’ of work. They are themselves, self-created moments that will resonate or not in the minds of others. My ‘better’ is not your ‘better’. Maybe later flaws will become apparent. I will run away from mediocrity if I can, but then mediocrity is often what people feel comfortable with, the norm, the familiar ( including myself, I expect).
A sparrow, hidden,
Chattering in the quince bush
Paying attention
To its own world.