Winter’s early cold has gathered
steam against the windows,
softening the lights’ reflection.
Standing in the doorway,
I strain above the hum of the dryer
to hear my son
as he narrates his play by whisper
in the old claw foot bathtub.
I should be helping him,
but he hasn’t noticed me there,
and the teacup is warm in my hands.
Finally he stills and calls to me — Dad?
I thought you were going to keep me company?
Of course I am.
Of course I am.
my unfinished work
littered with brittle browns
deepening shadows —
autumn’s reds and yellows
forsaking their offering
—
It was one year ago today I took the photograph that inspired my first tanka. It has been a less prolific season this year.
Perhaps I will try one more time
to run away from my dissatisfaction,
despite what the Buddha tells me.
I’d like to linger just a bit longer
at the breakfast table
amid striped pyjamas and cereal crumbs;
replace the broken panes of glass
in the porch and attic windows
to hold back the winter chill —
to sit
and leave space for two breaths
instead of one.
I may not be strong enough
for the weight of our tears,
or for end-of-day regrets.
I fear I am not strong enough
for the leaves that keep falling,
for each sun-drenched morning,
or the last whispers of childhood.
Three poems —
one about the love
in a small bag of pistachios —
and two works of prose
sit unwritten in my notebook;
the spaces aren’t big enough.
Yet, finally,
as the sun rises,
I call my daughter
out to the front steps
where we sit and talk about
yesterday’s and the morning’s
cloud formations
and what they may tell us
about the weather to come.
She watches her own breath
in the cool morning air,
describes the difference between
cirrus and altocumulus,
and asks me my favorite.
In a few hours time, I’ll be seated on a zafu and zabuton at the Temple, where I will sit for sesshin until Monday, rising for dokusan, sleep, kinhin, and to serve meals.
Outside, the sun will set and then rise to shine through autumn-colored leaves while small animals collect winter food. Cars and trucks will move down the road in front of the Temple as people inside them tune radios, make phone calls, and converse with friends and family.
Farther away, my wife and children will shuttle back and forth to soccer games and gymnastics, laughing, running, probably arguing too. We may take tea at the same time, not seeing but perhaps knowing.
Each of us will chase thoughts before stumbling upon moments of rest. We will cry. We will take breaths and release them, feeling the air around us, shouting and whispering.
crickets departed —
crows accompany leaves
falling through darkness
When I catalogue my regrets
at the end of the day,
I won’t include the moments we spent sitting
at the small table in the living room.
The old-fashioned fire whistle,
remnant of summoning volunteers
across the town,
punctured our long silence —
you picked up your head only briefly
from the sea-blue magic marker
before returning to your work,
tongue pressed in concentration
against your cheek.
We laughed gently about
a pair of dogs we could see
through the window
and across the street
jostling in the slanted afternoon sun.
You asked me not to leave —
yet there was never any chance;
my movement only a reach to the floor
for the morning’s leftover mug and a
sip of luke-warm coffee.
rough stones and moss
made slick by humid air
gather fallen leaves —
unsure footsteps and silence
grace summer’s indecision
—
I have typically posted tanka accompanied, and inspired, by an photograph. The image here is in my mind only, placed there on a late summer, quiet afternoon walk through the woods, unaccompanied by my camera or technology of any sort. I was disappointed at first not to be able to capture the moment…yet the words can do it justice, and the feat is unattainable in any event.
Sitting in fold-up chairs
behind the old brick municipal center
that once was an elementary school —
where paint is chipping from windows and
a cluster of two-by-fours and plywood
leans awkwardly against the battered dumpster —
we sip coffee from styrofoam cups and
watch our lives run,
exhorting our children with shouts
through an early autumn breeze,
as if the result of the game
meant more than a Saturday morning.
The first leaves flutter to the ground
out of a cobalt sky
as we turn momentarily
away from the field
toward idle conversation.
bussokuseki 