Utopian Fruit: A Zuihitsu

Red bell tower with a cotton lining; one dark-suited crow for a clapper.

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The night birds chant a song of virgules only. When I wake, the fields have throats lined with frogs’ mating songs.

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In the shallows, what makes the cheeks of the lotus bulge?

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I squinted up into the trees and saw the face of the Buddha pressed on each green globe dangling.

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Dear tufted seed lying in the maw of thunder, I raise my cup to be blessed.

 

In response to Via Negativa: Farmer.

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