THIS WORLD OF DEW...A Poem by Michael R. Burch These are translations of haiku about dew as a metaphor for life's transience. THIS WORLD OF DEW … In their haiku the Oriental masters of the form frequently used dew as a metaphor for the transience of life. Some of these poets have used dew metaphorically in a jisei (a type of death poem sometimes called a “zen death poem”) … but then I discovered to my surprise that I had used dew in similar ways quite frequently in my own poetry … This world?
Seventy-one? How long can a dewdrop last? �"Eihei Dogen Kigen, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Dewdrops beading grass-blades die before dawn; may an untimely wind not hasten their departure! �"Eihei Dogen Kigen, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Outside my window the plums, blossoming, within their curled buds, contain the spring; the moon is reflected in the cup-like whorls of the lovely flowers I gather and twirl. �"Eihei Dogen Kigen, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch My life appeared like dew and disappears like dew. All Naniwa was a series of dreams. ― Toyotomi Hideyoshi, loose translation/interpretation of his jisei death poem by Michael R. Burch Let this body be dew in a field of wildflowers. ― Tembo, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Like dew glistening on a lotus leaf, so too I soon must vanish. ― Shinsui, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Dew-damp grass: the setting sun's tears ―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch The dew-damp grass weeps silently in the setting sun ―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch But sometimes, like a non-Freudian cigar, dew is just dew … Dabbed with morning dew and splashed with mud, the melon looks wonderfully cool. ―Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch I thought I felt a dewdrop plop on my head as I lay in bed! ―Masaoka Shiki, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Honeysuckle blesses my knuckle with affectionate dew ― Michael R. Burch Come As You Are by Rabindranath Tagore loose translation/interpretation/modernization by Michael R. Burch Come as you are, forget appearances! Is your hair untamable, your part uneven, your bodice unfastened? Never mind. Come as you are, forget appearances! Skip with quicksilver steps across the grass. If your feet glisten with dew, if your anklets slip, if your beaded necklace slides off? Never mind. Skip with quicksilver steps across the grass.
Do you see the clouds embracing the sky? Flocks of cranes erupt from the riverbank, fitful gusts ruffle the fields, anxious cattle tremble in their stalls. Do you see the clouds embracing the sky? You loiter in vain over your toilet lamp; it flickers and dies in the wind. Who will care that your eyelids have not been painted with lamp-black, when your pupils are darker than thunderstorms? You loiter in vain over your toilet lamp; it flickers and dies in the wind. Come as you are, forget appearances! If the wreath lies unwoven, who cares? If the bracelet is unfastened, let it fall. The sky grows dark; it is late. Come as you are, forget appearances! I Know The Truth by Marina Tsvetaeva loose translation by Michael R. Burch I know the truth―abandon lesser truths! There's no need for anyone living to struggle! See? Evening falls, night quickly descends! So why the useless disputes―generals, poets, lovers? The wind is calming now; the earth is bathed in dew; the stars' infernos will soon freeze in the heavens. And soon we'll sleep together, under the earth, we who never gave each other a moment's rest above it. I Know The Truth (Alternate Ending) by Marina Tsvetaeva loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch I know the truth―abandon lesser truths! There's no need for anyone living to struggle! See? Evening falls, night quickly descends! So why the useless disputes―generals, poets, lovers? The wind caresses the grasses; the earth gleams, damp with dew; the stars' infernos will soon freeze in the heavens. And soon we'll lie together under the earth, we who were never united above it. Salve by Michael R. Burch for the victims and survivors of 9-11 The world is unsalvageable ... but as we lie here in bed stricken to the heart by love despite war’s flickering images, sometimes we still touch, laughing, amazed, that our flesh does not despair of love as we do, that our bodies are wise in ways we refuse to comprehend, still insisting we eat, drink ... even multiply. And so we touch ... touch, and only imagine ourselves immune: two among billions in this night of wished-on stars, caresses, kisses, and condolences. We are not lovers of irony, we who imagine ourselves beyond the redemption of tears because we have salvaged so few for ourselves ... and so we laugh at our predicament, fumbling for the ointment. Keywords/tags: 911, war, survival, survivors, recovery, love, lovemaking, sex, tears, redemption, bodies, flesh, touch, caresses The Song of Amergin I loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch I am the sea breeze I am the ocean wave I am the surf's thunder I am the stag of the seven tines I am the cliff hawk I am the sunlit dew drop I am the fairest flower I am the rampaging boar I am the swift-swimming salmon I am the placid lake I am the excellence of art I am the vale echoing voices I am the battle-hardened spearhead I am the God who gave you fire Who knows the secrets of the unhewn dolmen Who understands the cycles of the moon Who knows where the sunset settles...
To a Daughter More Precious than Gems by Otomo no Sakanoue no Iratsume (c.700-750) , an ancient Japanese poet loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Heaven's cold dew has fallen and thus another season arrives. Oh, my child living so far away, do you pine for me as I do for you? I have trusted my jewel to the gem-guard; now there's nothing to do, my pillow, but for the two of us to sleep together! I cherished you, my darling, as the Sea God guards his treasury's pearls. But you are pledged to your husband (such is the way of the world) and torn from me like a blossom. I left you for faraway Koshi; since then your lovely eyebrows curving like distant waves ever linger in my eyes. My heart is as unsteady as a rocking boat; besieged by such longing I weaken with age and come close to breaking. If I could have prophesied such longing, I would have stayed with you, gazing on you constantly as into a shining mirror. I gaze out over the fields of Tadaka seeing the cranes that cry there incessantly: such is my longing for you. Oh my child, who loved me so helplessly like bird hovering over shallow river rapids! Dear child, my daughter, who stood sadly pensive by the gate, even though I was leaving for a friendly estate, I think of you day and night and my body has become thin, my sleeves tear-stained with weeping. If I must long for you so wretchedly, how can I remain these many months here at this dismal old farm? Because you ache for me so intently, your sad thoughts all confused like the disheveled tangles of your morning hair, I see you, dear child, in my dreams. Otomo no Sakanoue no Iratsume (c.700-750) was an important ancient Japanese poet. She had 79 poems in *Manyoshu* ('Collection of Ten Thousand Leaves') , the first major anthology of classical Japanese poetry, mostly waka. The compiler of the anthology was Otomo no Yakamochi (c.718-785) . Otomo no Sakanoue no Iratsume was his aunt, tutor and poetic mentor. In the first stanza, Lady Otomo has left her children in Nara, possibly to visit her brother. In the second stanza, it is believed that the jewel is Lady Otomo's daughter and that she has been trusted to the care of her husband. As for the closing stanza, according to the notes of the *Manyoshu*, it was popularly believed that a person would appear in the dreams of the one for whom he/she yearned.
These are original poems of mine that involve dew … Marsh Song by Michael R. Burch Here there is only the great sad song of the reeds and the silent herons, wraithlike in the mist, and a few drab sunken stones, unblessed by the sunlight these late sixteen thousand years, and the beaded dews that drench strange ferns, like tears collected against an overwhelming sadness. Here the marsh exposes its dejectedness, its gutted rotting belly, and its roots rise out of the earth's distended heaviness, to claw hard at existence, till the scars remind us that we all have wounds, and I have learned again that living is despair as the herons cleave the placid, dreamless air. Insurrection by Michael R. Burch She has become as the night―listening for rumors of dawn―while the dew, glistening, reminds me of her, and the wind, whistling, lashes my cheeks with its soft chastening. She has become as the lights―flickering in the distance―till memories old and troubling rise up again and demand remembering... like peasants rebelling against a mad king. The Insurrection of Sighs by Michael R. Burch She was my Shiloh, my Gethsemane; she nestled my head to her breast and breathed upon my insensate lips the fierce benedictions of her ubiquitous sighs, the veiled allegations of her disconsolate tears... Many years I abided the agile assaults of her flesh... She loved me the most when I was most sorely pressed; she undressed with delight for her ministrations when all I needed was a good night's rest... She anointed my lips with soft dews from her decadent lips; the insurrection of sighs left me fallen, distressed, at her elegant heel. I felt the hard iron, the cold steel, in her words and I knew: the terrible arrow showed through my conscripted flesh. The sun in retreat left her victor and all was Night. The last peal of surrender went sinking and dying―unheard. Oasis by Michael R. Burch I want tears to form again in the shriveled glands of these eyes dried all these long years by too much heated knowing. I want tears to course down these parched cheeks, to star these cracked lips like an improbable dew in the heart of a desert. I want words to burble up like happiness, like the thought of love, like the overwhelming, shimmering thought of you to a nomad who has only known drought. Sappho's Lullaby by Michael R. Burch Hushed yet melodic, the hills and the valleys sleep unaware of the nightingale's call while the dew-laden lilies lie listening, glistening... this is their night, the first night of fall. Son, tonight, a woman awaits you; she is more vibrant, more lovely than spring. She'll meet you in moonlight, soft and warm, all alone... then you'll know why the nightingale sings. Just yesterday the stars were afire; then how desire flashed through my veins! But now I am older; night has come, I'm alone... for you I will sing as the nightingale sings. Escape!! by Michael R. Burch You are too beautiful, too innocent, too inherently lovely to merely reflect the sun's splendor... too full of irresistible candor to remain silent, too delicately fawnlike for a world so violent... Come, my beautiful Bambi and I will protect you... but of course you have already been lured away by the dew-laden roses... Ivy by Michael R. Burch Ivy winds around these sagging structures from the flagstones to the eave heights, and, clinging, holds intact what cannot be saved of their loose entrails. Through long, blustery nights of dripping condensation, cured in the humidors of innumerable forgotten summers, waxy, unguent, palely, indifferently fragrant, it climbs, pausing at last to see the alien sparkle of dew beading delicate sparrowgrass. Coarse saw grass, thin skunk grass, clumped mildewed yellow gorse grow all around, and here remorse, things past, watch ivy climb and bend, and, in the end, we ask if grief is worth the gaps it leaps to mend. Children by Michael R. Burch There was a moment suspended in time like a swelling drop of dew about to fall, impendent, pregnant with possibility... when we might have made... anything, anything we dreamed, almost anything at all, coalescing dreams into reality. Oh, the love we might have fashioned out of a fine mist and the nightly sparkle of the cosmos and the rhythms of evening! But we were young, and what might have been is now a dark abyss of loss and what is left is not worth saving. But, oh, you were lovely, child of the wild moonlight, attendant tides and doting stars, and for a day, what little we partook of all that lay before us seemed so much, and passion but a force with which to play. Twice by Michael R. Burch Now twice she has left me and twice I have listened and taken her back, remembering days when love lay upon us and sparkled and glistened with the brightness of dew through a gathering haze. But twice she has left me to start my life over, and twice I have gathered up embers, to learn: rekindle a fire from ash, soot and cinder and softly it sputters, refusing to burn. Geode by Michael R. Burch Love―less than eternal, not quite true― is still the best emotion man can muster. Through folds of peeling rind―rough, scarred, crude-skinned― she shines, all limpid brightness, coolly pale. Crude-skinned though she may seem, still, brilliant-hearted, in her uneven fissures, glistening, glows that pale rose: like a flame, yet strangely brittle; dew-lustrous pearl streaks gaping mossback shell. And yet, despite the raggedness of her luster, as she hints and shimmers, touching those who see, she is not without her uses or her meanings; in all her avid gleamings, Love bestows the rare spark of her beauty to her bearer, till nothing flung to earth seems half so fair. Salat Days by Michael R. Burch Dedicated to the memory of my grandfather, Paul Ray Burch, Sr. I remember how my grandfather used to pick poke salat... though first, usually, he'd stretch back in the front porch swing, dangling his long thin legs, watching the sweat bees drone, talking about poke salat― how easy it was to find if you knew where to seek it... standing in dew-damp clumps by the side of a road, shockingly green, straddling fence posts, overflowing small ditches, crowding out the less-hardy nettles. 'Nobody knows that it's there, lad, or that it's fit tuh eat with some bacon drippin's or lard.' 'Don't eat the berries. You see―the berry's no good. And you'd hav'ta wash the leaves a good long time.' 'I'd boil it twice, less'n I wus in a hurry. Lawd, it's tough to eat, chile, if you boil it jest wonst.' He seldom was hurried; I can see him still... silently mowing his yard at eighty-eight, stooped, but with a tall man's angular gray grace. Sometimes he'd pause to watch me running across the yard, trampling his beans, dislodging the shoots of his tomato plants. He never grew flowers; I never laughed at his jokes about The Depression. Years later I found the proper name―'pokeweed'―while perusing a dictionary. Surprised, I asked why anyone would eat a weed. I still can hear his laconic reply... 'Well, chile, s'm'times them times wus hard.' Roses for a Lover, Idealized by Michael R. Burch When you have become to me as roses bloom, in memory, exquisite, each sharp thorn forgot, will I recall―yours made me bleed? When winter makes me think of you, whorls petrified in frozen dew, bright promises blithe spring forgot, will I recall your words―barbed, cruel? Hearthside by Michael R. Burch 'When you are old and grey and full of sleep...' ― W. B. Yeats For all that we professed of love, we knew this night would come, that we would bend alone to tend wan fires' dimming bars―the moan of wind cruel as the Trumpet, gelid dew an eerie presence on encrusted logs we hoard like jewels, embrittled so ourselves. The books that line these close, familiar shelves loom down like dreary chaperones. Wild dogs, too old for mates, cringe furtive in the park, as, toothless now, I frame this parchment kiss. I do not know the words for easy bliss and so my shriveled fingers clutch this stark, long-unenamored pen and will it: Move. I loved you more than words, so let words prove. The Peripheries of Love by Michael R. Burch Through waning afternoons we glide the watery peripheries of love. A silence, a quietude falls. Above us―the sagging pavilions of clouds. Below us―rough pebbles slowly worn smooth grate in the gentle turbulence of yesterday's forgotten rains. Later, the moon like a virgin lifts her stricken white face and the waters rise toward some unfathomable shore. We sway gently in the wake of what stirs beneath us, yet leaves us unmoved... curiously motionless, as though twilight might blur the effects of proximity and distance, as though love might be near― as near as a single cupped tear of resilient dew or a long-awaited face. Describing You by Michael R. Burch How can I describe you? The fragrance of morning rain mingled with dew reminds me of you; the warmth of sunlight stealing through a windowpane brings you back to me again. This is an early poem of mine, written as a teenager. My Forty-Ninth Year by Michael R. Burch My forty-ninth year and the dew remembers how brightly it glistened encrusting September: one frozen September when hawks ruled the sky and death fell on wings with a shrill, keening cry. My forty-ninth year, and still I recall the weavings and windings of childhood, of fall: of fall enigmatic, resplendent, yet sere, ... though vibrant the herald of death drawing near. My forty-ninth year and now often I've thought on the course of a lifetime, the meaning of autumn: the cycle of autumn with winter to come, of aging and death and rebirth... on and on. Numbered by Michael R. Burch He desired an object to crave; she came, and she altared his affection. He asked her for something to save: a memento for his collection. But all that she had was her need; what she needed, he knew not to give. They compromised on a thing gone to seed to complete the half lives they would live. One in two, they were less than complete. Two plus one, in their huge fractious home left them two, the new one in the street, and then he, by himself, one, alone. He awoke past his prime to new dawn with superfluous dew all around, in ten thousands bright beads on his lawn, and he knew that, at last, he had found a number of things he had missed: things shining and bright, unencumbered by their price, or their place on a list. Then with joy and despair he remembered and longed for the lips he had kissed when his days were still evenly numbered. Photographs by Michael R. Burch Here are the effects of a life and they might tell us a tale (if only we had time to listen) of how each imperiled tear would glisten, remembered as brightness in her eyes, and how each dawn's dramatic skies could never match such pale azure. Like dreams of her, these ghosts endure and they tell us a tale of impatient glory... till a line appears―a trace of worry?― or the wayward track of a wandering smile which even now can charm, beguile? We might find good cause to wonder as we see her pause (to frown? , to ponder?) : what vexed her in her loveliness... what weight, what crushing heaviness turned her auburn hair a frazzled gray, and stole her youth before her day? We might ask ourselves: did Time devour the passion with the ravaged flower? But here and there a smile will bloom to light the leaden, shadowed gloom that always seems to linger near... And here we find a single tear: it shimmers like translucent dew and tells us Anguish touched her too, and did not spare her for her hair's burnt copper, or her eyes' soft hue. Published in Tucumcari Literary Review (the first poem in its issue) ZEN DEATH HAIKU Above the garden the camellia tree blossoms whitely... �"Uejima Onitsura (1660-1738) , explaining the essence of haiku, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Moonlit hailstones: the night hawks return. �"Uejima Onitsura (1660-1738) , loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Nowhere to dump the dishwater: cricket cacophony. �"Uejima Onitsura (1660-1738) , loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch A good father drives away crows from his sparrow-like children. �"Uejima Onitsura (1660-1738) , loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch A cool breeze: the empty sky fills with the songs of the pines. �"Uejima Onitsura (1660-1738) , loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Return my dream, raven! You woke me to a misted-over unreadable moon �"Uejima Onitsura (1660-1738) , said to be his death poem, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Tears are useless: insects, lovers, the stars themselves must part. �"Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Sparrow-like children, make way, make way! The stallion's coming through! �"Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch No one travels this path but me, this moonless autumn evening. �"Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Lieutenant-General Tomoyuki Yamashita wrote this poem on December 4,1941, while sailing for Hainan to invade Malaya. Now, as the sun and moon shine as one, the arrow, hurtling from the bow, speeds my spirit toward the enemy, bearing also a hundred million souls �"my people of the East�" as the sun and moon shine as one. �"Tomoyuki Yamashita, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Bonfires for the dead? Soon they'll light pyres for us, instead. �"Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Children delight in bonfires for the dead; soon they'll light pyres for us, instead. �"Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Cries of the wild geese�" spreading rumors about me? Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Wake up, old tomcat, then with elaborate yawns and stretchings prepare to pursue love Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch This windy nest? Open your hungry mouth in vain, Issa, orphaned sparrow! Kobayashi Issa (1763-1827) , loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch The ghostly cow comes mooing mooing mooing out of the morning mist Kobayashi Issa (1763-1827) , loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Full moon�" my ramshackle hut is an open book. Kobayashi Issa (1763-1827) , loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch The snow melts the rivers rise and the village is flooded with children! Kobayashi Issa (1763-1827) , loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Don't weep, we are all insects! Lovers, even the stars themselves, must eventually part. Kobayashi Issa (1763-1827) , loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Peonies blossom; the world is full of fibbers. Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Peonies blossom; the world is full of blooming liars. Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Overdressed for my thatched hut: a peony blossoms. Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Oh, magnificent peony, please don't disdain these poor surroundings! Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Insolent peony! Demanding I measure your span with my fan? Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch 'This big! ' The child's arms measured the peony. Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Issa seemed to have a love-hate relationship with the peony, writing at least 84 haiku about the flower, sometimes praising it and sometimes accusing it of haughtiness and insolence! The rutting cat has grown so scrawny he's nothing but eyes. �"Natsume Soseki, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Clinging to each other beneath an umbrella: spring rain. �"Natsume Soseki, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Twos become one: butterflies. �"Natsume Soseki, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch No rain and yet the flowers glisten? Dew. �"Natsume Soseki, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Buzzings encircle a meditating monk: mosquitoes. �"Natsume Soseki, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch He's lost so much weight in the summer heat even the mosquitoes won't bite. �"Natsume Soseki, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Autumn's here, crickets, whether you chirp or not. �"Natsume Soseki, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch A windy temple: coins clatter in the collection box. �"Shuson Kato, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch After death six feet under the frost will be sufficient cover. �"Shuson Kato, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Midwinter thunder rattles the windowpanes. �"Shuson Kato, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch PLUM BLOSSOM HAIKU A shy maiden: the loveliness of the lone plum blossoming �"Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Longing for plum blossoms: bowing before the deutzia, weeping. �"Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Moonlit plum tree, tarry! Spring will return soon. �"Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch The plum blossom’s fragrance warms winter’s frigid embrace. �"Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch White plum blossoms: have the cranes gone undercover? �"Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Suddenly, the scent of plums on a mountain path: sunrise! �"Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Warm sun unfolds the plum blossom’s scent: a mountain path. �"Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch The plum in full bloom must not be disturbed by the wind. �"Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch The plum's fragrance: the past holds such pathos. �"Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Are you the butterfly and I the dreaming heart of Soshi? �"Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch kimi ya cho / ware ya shoshi no / yume gokoro The poem above is a reference to a butterfly dream of Chuang Tzu, a Taoist sage and poet who was a major influence on Basho. Soshi is the Japanese rendering of the name Chuang Tzu. I believe what Basho may have meant is something closer to this: Are you the butterfly while I pursue dreams of Soshi? �"Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Are you the butterfly while in my dreams I flit after Soshi? �"Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch The white poppy accepts the butterfly's broken wing as a keepsake �"Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch shirageshi ni / hane mogu cho no / katami kana As autumn deepens a butterfly sips chrysanthemum dew �"Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch aki o hete / cho mo nameru ya / kiku no tsuyu A single leaf of paulownia falling reflects the sun. �"Takahama Kyoshi, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch I caught a falling cherry petal; but opening my fist ... nothing �"Takahama Kyoshi, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch They call it a white peony yet it contains hints of red �"Takahama Kyoshi, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Evening shadows grow thick on the floating algae �"Takahama Kyoshi, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch The snake slithered away yet his eyes, having met mine, remain �"Takahama Kyoshi, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch The bamboo grove is lit by the yellow spring sunlight �"Takahama Kyoshi, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Chikurin ni/ Ki naru haruhi wo/ Aogikeri On a hot summer night dreams and reality merge. �"Takahama Kyoshi, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Mizika-yo ya/ Yume mo utsutsu mo / Onazi koto The summer butterfly has to look sharp to make its getaway. �"Takahama Kyoshi, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Natsu no cho/ Manako surudoku/ Kakeri kishi The autumn sky is severed by the big chinquapin tree. �"Takahama Kyoshi, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Akizora wo/ Futatsu ni tateri/ Shii-taiju “Cawa-cawa!” The winter crow elocutes coarsely. �"Takahama Kyoshi, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Kawa kawa to/ Ookiku yuruku/ Samu-garasu Keywords/Tags: dew, dewdrop, haiku, jisei, zen, time, transience, mortality, impermanence, death, life, transcendent splinterings by michael r. burch we have grown too far apart, we have grown too far apart; we have grown too far apart; or persuade us to remain? Drippings © 2023 Michael R. Burch |
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