Honshu--April to May

Because light,

objects

  

of the world

gather it

   

there

   

 for us

 to see.

Light.

**

The writing, for me, says more

than the written.

Words bang around

as best they can, push

and probe; 

but what they know 

is nearly 

never said

and what they say

is mostly missed.

The writing itself

is clearer than this.

**

Honshu 

on day three in Tokyo, a long walk without getting lost

goes a long way to settle the senses. Trains sound

less foreign now, people wait for signals, for breakfasts

of fish from venders and generally appear to ignore

the grey-beard gaijin passing by—we’ve arrived.

**

Iris in the royal gardens

is said to signal early summer,

but late spring rains slake the thirst

of violet-rimmed tongues,

choked with gold.

**

Mists and clouds suddenly rush aside

to reveal Fuji, 

buck naked, under a hat 

of the whitest snow.

**

At Hokone Inn

at sunrise, the public bath 

washed away the night.

**

Higashi-Takayama

Multiple temples nestle in the wooded foothills

on the eastern edge of town—stone Buddhas watch,

large bells, quiet and ready, waiting the streets,

the freshly leafed trees, almost as if, in first light

only the river moves. 

**

Kanazawa

Second only to Fuji is the Hakusan range,

pure, sacred, covered with snow and run through 

with the river Sho—Shokawa, river of a hundred miles,

plumbs, penetrates and tunnels deep, blessed 

with prayer and spring-borne petals.

**

The Kyoto National Museum

celebrates Zen forms. Old friends

show up of course, though we don’t talk 

so much as smile, nod and bow—reminds me

how neglectful I’ve been; but no one mentions

this, nor the sense of warmth coursing 

the crowd, that one form, for me, 

that continues to stick, impossible, so it seems, 

to shake: Buddha’s call, there even if 

no one shows.

**

Sometimes wind sings

through others’ voices. Birds

take it where they can, give it back

with gusto. Others think of it

as their own, have to be taught.

In time, we all learn—the blessed

do so a bit sooner.

**

Tokyo lets us go today,

the gentle release

of acquaintance 

turned friend.

**

Found the well last night,

an open-centered spring, deep

in swimming dreams,

a silent illuminating presence,

not still, nothing shown upon, just 

illuminating.

**

The heart falls back 

on itself; first trust there,

then follows the rest.

**

Recognition by name is nearly everything.

But witness, claiming only presence, 

comes closer. 

**

May 10th, at 10:30 evening time, the moon

high in the west, fully half-way to full,

freely blankets the world at large

in unbinding silvered light.

**

Resting on the slope of the shell mound in Buckeye Canyon 

in a bouquet of a singular flower reminiscent of lupine, 

bright white and violet, with dusted leaves, differently shaped.

Getting close, getting to the ground to press this vision

to memory, I remember Thoreau—curious intentions

flowering with poems of joy and delight.