Stammering

an empty alms bowl—

pilgrim stammering her thanks

for last night’s supper

Linger

On an empty road

the prayers of pilgrims past

linger forever.

blue cormorant boats

painting the bay this morning—

lunatic beauty

long way home—

even the thunder

is panting

poems on the way

pilgrim scribbling in his book

even crows keep still

Bring your walking stick

to test the course before you—

hot and high the winds.

Is this not the mug

from which old Socrates drank

after his trial?