Expectations dashed,
morning arises just the same.
We skirt the space from last night
and busy ourselves
in living —
I understand
the rain should taper off today.
—
There are difficult moments in much of what I write, but I have been reluctant to post something that doesn’t somehow tie up neatly. Not all moments do.
stars fade
as first shadows
play on apple tree branches
above the altar
the ancient window’s brass fittings
have acquiesced to open
bursting forth —
not two
nothing to be sure of
but the time for tea
early morning
sun and shadows streak
thinning ice
clinging against hope
for a day’s reprieve
the shallow stream skirts
softened edges of a field —
emptiness surrounds
steady retreat on a path
through morning grey and stillness
the old sentry watches
over mist and heavy water
weathered by time yet
outlasting the faded road
no escape from loneliness
hundreds of winters
have loosened the barriers
between wind and warmth —
the coldest mornings leave gifts,
delicate intermingling
breathless light struggles —
long shadows arrive early
in the day’s passing
—
I feel like I’ve been writing around the edges recently. Circling around words that need to be expressed but aren’t ready to be committed. My notebook is littered with opening lines and untitled strings of paragraphs that don’t quite go together. This haiku managed to emerge complete, perhaps a part of circling inward. It is, in any event, one step next to another step, and what this moment holds.
Thumbing through the copy of
Merton’s Birds of Appetite
she found on our living room shelf,
my wife asks me who it had belonged to,
curious about the writing in the margins.
I look and recognize the hand of an old friend;
we used to talk about Zen and Shakespeare.
She wonders if I ever hear from her —
but I have grown so much quieter,
and I can’t bear to intrude
upon spaces so large.
What would I say?
Dear ones lie still,
near and peaceful,
yet quiet has settled too deeply,
darkness persistent, final —
can these shallow breaths
be the full completion of Dogen;
sudden loneliness,
truly buddha nature;
restlessness,
realization;
misgiving,
it?
I’ve gained nothing
from the practice,
instead losing some
of what I used to have.
What I looked for isn’t here.
Still fearful,
bitter at separation —
but, too,
softened against the day
and quicker to tears.
My daughter’s pockets
are filled with shiny rocks,
just like mine.
bussokuseki 