Renga

These dozen masters of the haiku punch-line

Their Dogen days gone like their long spent youth

Word Mount Fuji or itemise lunchtime,

As if signs on paper fit in for the truth.

They fold each hanging line, each splash of time

Over, for the next one to draw conclusions.

Their practice is so careworn it’s ever primed,

At home with contemplation and confusions.

Autumn offers favours, both harvest and death.

It’s like knee bones loosening, how breathing stalls,

Except knee bones’ hurt it is, and shortness of breath:

Autumn for Dogens moons, gathers, wobbles, falls.

They glob and smooth black ink toward relief

Then imprint their red name like a fallen leaf.