march

There is a strange space in the wee hours when I wake restless and fumbling in low light for glasses of water, glimpses of stars, scraps of paper, books, anything to set my soul at ease.  When luck is on my side I find it -- a revelation that actually make sense, maybe even sends me right back to sleep.  Sometimes it doesn't quite work out -- so I carry the unrest -- like strange keys, these souvenirs from my hazy waking dreams -- looking for the lock into which they fit.  

From last nights divining -- I can't explain how it fit into these clouds from this Ohio morning that was brilliant but never warm, but somehow it did:

Kyoto:  March

A few light flakes of snow
Fall in the feeble sun;
Birds sing in the cold,
A warbler by the wall. The plum
Buds tight and chill soon bloom.
The moon begins first
Fourth, a faint slice west
At nightfall. Jupiter half-way
High at the end of night-
Meditation. The dove cry
Twangs like a bow.
At dawn Mt. Hiei dusted white
On top; in the clear air
Folds of all the gullied green
Hills around the town are sharp,
Breath stings. Beneath the roofs
Of frosty houses
Lovers part, from tangle warm
Of gentle bodies under quilt
And crack the icy water to the face
And wake and feed the children
And grandchildren that they love.

— Gary Snyder