ODE TO PERSIMMON
In the dream Basho was under the persimmon tree, or was it Li Po, the Ming Dynasty poet and nature scholar, with his braided beard and itchy robe. But their faces resembled mine, eating the fruit for juice and replenishment sweet from a long journey on mule. The country trail that passed was winding around cosmos flowers and blue butterflies. And in a moment was frost. Hanging in the tree were persimmons like resplendent snowballs. I was patting my tired companion on his hair under the saddle. When Li Po woke up from a nap it was late autumn. The river was scenic with deciduous trees. Basho couldn’t resist bathing after writing about a water urn and cherry blossoms. Then I saw my reflection in the spring. And I floated away from the land of permissions on my back downstream. The country of Unju will have an elegy for me.
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