ops. 25
 
 
in the flooded wasabi fields
the silver peak of Mt. Tsubakuro, reflected
as if seen in a former life
a nostalgic blue winter sky
the spine of the great snow-formed butterfly cracks open
and the pestle’s sound has ceased
upon the white wings of a waterwheel
forgetting even to flow
purple lilacs 
bloom enraptured

 
ops. 26
 
 
the eye, too, is a thing,
so it can see things
is that so?
the long autumn rain has ceased,
an afternoon that feels like snow,
from somewhere 
such questioning comes drifting down
from upstream on the Tadegawa,
parantica sita comes drifting too
and catches on the reflected autumn leaves
what its eyes still reflect,
an afterlife, a paradise,
far too small,
we cannot dissect
seeing is not an organ
seeing is not the mind
even the butterfly’s water burial,
the shape of an eddy
the stream, living and dying
tries to wash away 
the resistance of the thing that is the eye 
and see things
despite having eyes,
it tries to see things
 
 
ops. 27
 
 
a sakazuki gently 
drifting down,
waiting for it, too, is a song of time
 
 
ops. 28
 
 
cherry blossoms have bloomed
on a water mirror carrying away late autumn
unknowingly
has it forgotten 
how to step through two winters?
or is it already burdensome
that dutiful rhyme
that completes 
a season neatly?
“n,” too, young and supple, bouncing along
the watercress rill
an old snipe, alone,
sails a bamboo-leaf boat,
trailing a white, 
dazzling wake,
unable to catch up with thought
like leaves of words