Year after year and my old mother in her grave. I choose to believe her cares are lifted, the only thing I willfully imagine as I gave up on god and afterlives long ago. You shouldn’t care about my habits of mind so forgive me. The branches of the yew are fragrant. And small birds I can’t identify are high in its branches. My heart beats steadily. “Why” wrote Ikkyu, “is it all so beautiful, this false dream, this craziness, why?” Morning smells of pines. I could almost believe I’m in the mountains. The little dog raises his sweet face my way. Walls of memory come down. Again I’m a young student translating a poem: You came close. Hoar frost and snow was coming on. Clouds and branches at the windows. All night the stars were like a song. I went in, singing their song, step by step. In discrete moments this life, this branch with its birds makes sense.
Planet of the Blind 