Bamboo shoots in a blue pot, tea steepingin a tall cup with painted koi on the side.
Outside my window, the cat stalks a sparrow,but is too tender-hearted to lunge.
Even with your hastily scrawled note stillon the table, it is hard for me to believe
you are the woman in that poem who madelove to her husband again and again so he
would sleep deeply and she could slipaway to meet the young fisherman barefoot
in pure, sweet water, the lures he is famousfor pinned to his open shirt.