Coda

The Zen poet at his table,

in front of him an open window,

the wabi-sabi, the tamasha,

co-emergent; feeling the

wind from butterfly wings in

Kyoto on his cheek as the

shakuhatchi from his radio

ripples the waves of 

Washington.

Will he continue in this floating

world, or, fade like the imprint

of a crane in the sky? 

Hara-kiri was never his forte...

but, tsunami, divine wind.

Nature doesn't get pissed off...

it evens things out over time.