Buson — The Journey Continues

— — — — — — —

on the poet-trail
dry waterholes
and cold firepits
full of ashes

young hawk visiting
the yard goes quiet

bright colors
free to dance
with the poor

the colors
-of music
-of love
-of words
-of brilliant foods
-of incense and rain
surround us if we close our eyes

greens go to gold and rust
blue skies
clouds in white and gray
the pause of summer

running hard
left behind
I keep running

in a dream
a strange dog
but I knew him before
it is good to pet him again

Dana Sanford

Poet. Philosopher. A sense of Humor. 60 years ago I rode the winds at the top of a tall cottonwood. Buy me a coffee @ https://ko-fi.com/danasanford

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