Have you forgotten the way to my hut?
Every evening I wait for the sound of your footsteps,
But you do not appear.

                                        Ryokan from One Robe, One Bowl
                                        (trans. John Stevens)

I

Today I pulled up winter-bleached ribbon-grass
to ready the garden for Spring.
Its fraying, filmy whiteness
calls to mind
the cloud-like gray of your hair
floating in mountain breezes
as you watch the crescent-moon
move among ancient pines.

II

Your hut is many ages away!
Your moon still casts her peaceful shadows. . .
These afternoon frailties of grass will fade
like the incense rising
out of your hermitage window.

III

I do recall the way to Gogo-an!
Your hut is reached by treading deeper and deeper
into the heart's valley—
carrying a handful of ghost-colored grasses
and an empty rice-bowl.