Facing East on Basho Pond
Every day, I trod the imperial Basho Pond, feet placed neatly in footsteps by the latent water. Staccato tongue cuddled the acrolect of frogs and mist, pugnacious through ice-capped moss. Saffron robe cast up night’s cutlass blades like refuge drawing lava from crater floor, sparing my quiescence its silhouette against these rustic plains of forethought. At the chirps of robin’s nest, up the Tea House Hermitage, a life of incense strong-winged over bead- drops of dew, distilled into innards of cicada-hued wood beams, more arcane than any frankincense tracing veins of dead ghosts....
Read More