The Empty Bowl

Basho had it right.
When fame and friends nipped
at the hem of his robe

He set out for roads
where he would need to harvest
reeds for sandals.

The poet who did not become one
with his subject
was unworthy.

The one who permitted illusion
to blind him
betrayed the truth.

Poverty shapes the begging bowl
of the heart —
the way a feather

looks at us from the ground,
and dreams
guide us through the bamboo groves

Of night,
the majestic morphologies of joy;
our most dangerous possibilities

Our wealth
may get us through the trees
but we must leave it
before it is too late
to see the road ahead.

 

Sept. 4, 2021