I sit on a cushion sipping tea from the chipped stone cup
with no handle that changes color over time
reading Basho as the temple bell
chimes…with one hand she fingers back her hair…
Then I gaze across the tatami past the opaque
sliding doors that redefine space
again and again in our quiet guest house
Beyond the cypress hot spring bath –
a brilliance of red and yellow leaves
brush across the mountain
I read more Basho – I wish somehow I could
wash this perishing world
You are finding a way back
along the narrow path
