Greetings from the first darkness,
moon enclosed in cloud caverns –
trailing a watery shadow, wet flame.
Winter, the brittle season,
further exfoliates the trees;
in the park glazes statues
with dirty rain.
It is not difficult for them
to hold a pose for centuries.
But what are you still thinking?
Is it better to forget it – or persevere?
I remember the statue of Goethe,
a not so jolly giant in Chicago,
and the one of Ghandi in New York,
striding through Union Square.
Once I actually saw someone snatch
the necklace of pink carnations
that had been draped like pom-poms
around his neck. It didn’t faze him a bit.
Implacable, he just kept putting one foot,
always the same one, in front of the other.
Of a poem.
Meat of meaning
that travels with Basho
the narrow road —
network of veins
leading to leaf-lip.
of green-blooded words.