I came to Kyoto
the quick way –
splitting rice fields
in a flash,
arriving under the mountain
in an instant,
only to sit around
walk around
think,
do nothing.
What good is speed when time stretches out forever?
I returned from Kyoto
the quick way –
splicing villages
in a blink,
arriving by the ocean
so fast,
only to lie around
read
write this poem
and wait on death.
What good is speed when the marker moves with us?
Better to listen for
the cuckoo’s cry
and drink warm tea.
The bamboo in the garden
I’ve never known
to rush –
but how we prune it
with such vigor!
