Last night in the garden, back after sitting, after the joy of picking up new where we had left off weeks – an eternity – ago, there between branches heavy with leaves, the bright moon fails to hide what it cannot: itself.
This morning, where the moon once rose, now thin clouds are spread, cast with the pink light of sun coming up on their tender underbellies: Day, too, has no disguise.
And me, like my poet ancestor Basho, morning and night I strive moment to moment to « learn to listen as things speak for themselves. »