Wednesday, July 17
link


Basho
Each poem is a tiny door,
or better still,
a window.

Light as a snowflake,
slippery as a whale,
poised as a candle,
silent as an orchid.

We've walked a long way together.
Somewhere ahead of us
a horse whinnies,
a crow calls,
a beetle's becoming a firefly.

The horse and the crow are a poem.

The firefly lights our way.
 - David Young








  • ". . . as I have said often enough, I write for myself in multiplicate,
    a not unfamiliar phenomenon on the horizon of shimmering deserts."
    - Vladimir Nabokov