Sunday afternoon.
I give myself a pedi-
cure and take a walk.
Low tide. Sun on the
mudflats. The horizon bright
with the sound of geese.
As Zhuangzi says, this
is also a that. Nothing
compares with the Il-
lumination of
the Obvious. Haiku and
Zen go together.
There is a moment
as it is about to snow,
when flakes float not fall,
weightless, not down but
around. It touches your cheek,
you flash back to your
last innocent kiss,
first brush with contingency,
the cold hot instant.
In weak midwinter
light ducks add irredescent
green and raucous song
to the empty cove.
Others like me wait here in
hope the ducks will show.
On the horizon
as the day darkens we hear
a godlike laughter.
Even winterized,
the masts and shrouds sing along
when there’s a good wind.
The docks rock. So with
nothing to look forward to
but good windy days
sing with the chorus:
with nowhere to go we may
as well sing along.
In the tearoom we
debate winter coats: puffers,
Patagonia fleece.
On the long walk home,
a cold wind proves reason’s
futility; I
watch swans swim around, small heads
in and out of it.
There is poetry
in prose: Sato’s translations;
tenuous, wiry,
late Hill. Though today
is cold and dark, two swans show
up in the cove. This
happens: contingent,
beautiful, a shock to life’s
chiaroscuro.
Sexual grunts, roars
and so on make good poems
some say. I’ve read them.
Primal, they say. To-
day icy milky skies re-
flected in the Bay
recall Du Fu’s still
mind as well as the white fire
of her shining thighs.
I walk slowly to-
day. Today our tyrant has
flown into exile.
I enjoy the cold.
From dark clouds drift single flakes.
They melt on my face
and mix with warm tears.
Freedom comes and goes but so
do apple blossoms.
The appearance of
the winter sun at day’s end
is worth waiting for.
To the gray water
and things across the water
absolutes of time
and space no longer
matter. You can see Basho’s
white chrysanthemum.
My winter tanka
notebook on infinity
(open, immanent,
whole) includes how rak-
ing sunlight animates a
squirrel in the road—
its soft belly, o-
therwise not moving. Also
notes on clouds (of course),
immense, crystalline,
racing over the village,
going nowhere fast.
A break in the clouds.
The gulls shine in the steep air
over the Bay and
on the rough surface.
It happens countless times in
the life of a gull.
It can move a man
to tears. It’s hard sometimes to
not reach conclusions.
