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.
From under my um-
brella Canadian geese
appeared on the grass.
First day of endless
rain. I had walked into them.
They kept grazing. One
can’t keep every-
thing in mind. The grass was soft
and green under them.
A great happiness
came over me today as
I walked in the rain
down by the grey cove.
None of my bird friends were there,
just sea, sky, and rain.
That raw wet distance
I knew as the origin
whence poems descend.
What highway ends here
where the great geese congregate
in our small waters?
White and black they churn,
a strict bounty on each head.
Eternity’s love
for time’s others not-
withstanding, some return north,
going the distance.
After my haircut
I bought Japanese whisky
to share with a friend.
No friend, no whisky—
that’s my rule. On the way home
Fall mist soaked me through.
The whisky warmed me,
the haircut raised my hope in
eternal friendship.
I take the same path
each day not expecting much,
though same means little.
If my path crosses
a slant of Autumn sunshine,
I see the shriveled
Iris as I pass,
the original purple
deepened in the shade.
I cough, suddenly
afraid I caught the virus
in my solitude.
I hear time breathe in
the moment I sought in prayer.
That is time’s breakthrough.
Eternity com-
panions each last moment of
my life, of my life.
The blood of Pequots
seeps through in dying marsh grass
each Fall as I pass
Such ferocity!
These English made a new world.
Hard to describe the
colors that rise at the edge
of the blue water.
On my daily walk
I take Basho’s “Narrow Road.”
I know my limits.
Once my companions
valued free expression. I
left them on the road.
I’m too old to go
far. When my heart feels pure, I
take a coffee break.
The Bay wrinkles and
the oak trees rustle. An o-
vercast day good for
waiting. No heron
rises from the bronze marsh grass.
Basho read over
and over a new
haiku until Way appeared—
no other feelings.
Even the tide sounds
lonely through the mist and pines.
Without solitude
I’d find the village
dreary, but when the heart floods
with joy, I don’t care.
