100 Bones & 9 Openings

Basho, were you ill

or ailing on your journey?

What did you see there:

fields or moors? Were they endless,

desolate, or withered?

What dreams of yours flew

or roamed or wandered?

Basho, there’s no frog here!

Three hundred thirty years now,

no laughing water.

Broken milkweed stalks

bleached beneath pale sun, the bones

are all one can know.

Basho, on the narrow road

with your knapsack, rice, and wine,

what approaches behind winter rain?