In the Basho Temple

 

It all started with a violin lesson;

navigation of hand, wrist on the bow,

rhythm phrasing,

ears perk up, eyes on the notes;

how to walk, how to run,

how to let it be,

and when I hear a voice,

how I fly

through the dark night

searching for its beginning.

 

In the Basho temple,

you built a forest around me.

I breathe the budding buds, fading leaves;

you taught me

how to recall my every step,

watch the fallen foliage

clutter into debris,

and how the dried leaves

swirl away each plea and woe.

In the blowing winds,

I am going back to the root of the tree.