January 28
Today it is snowing again and I’m thinking of Borges.
Something he understood is floating abroad.
It’s a garden of forking paths, a lottery, a library,
a room where Funes still lies in the dark,
lost in his reverie.
Dream-wise, the snow comes down . . .
I met the man once, admired
his unseeing face, his simple composure
gazing inside at what we so seldom glimpse,
the endless ocean of human suffering.
The snow rims every branch, each twig;
each field’s a white expanse,
a page of forgotten light.
Thinking of Borges again,
watching the peace that is snowfall.
Basho
Each poem is a tiny door,
or better still,
a window.
Light as a snowflake,
slippery as a whale,
poised as a candle,
silent as an orchid.
We’ve walked a long way together.
Somewhere ahead of us
a horse whinnies,
a crow calls,
a beetle’s becoming a firefly.
The horse and the crow are a poem.
The firefly lights our way.
