In my next life, I will live in a house
with a roof that curls like a smile.
Outside, a script of trees and clouds.
Paths winding up the mountain.
Pilgrims climbing the ninety-nine steps
to the pagoda, carrying bright offerings.
Shivering, I will rise in the morning,
blow on my hands like coals,
and squat to make tea in the teapot.
Slowly, the leaves will fill my heart
like a cup, the tea leaves swirling,
knowing more than I know.
In the room’s far corner, an altar.
A few flowers, incense.
Buddha smiling.
How little will be necessary!
Like a beggar’s bowl,
each day will be full and empty.
The white cherry dropping its petals.
A snail on a silent journey,
leaving a shining path.
The swollen moon floating in a pool,
disappearing, coming back.
A tipsy bee on the lip of the wine cup.
The sake overturned. Joy. Tears.
One life containing everything.
All will be a great wheel turning,
the seasons a pageant where
the low and the highborn parade
in rags and brilliant finery.
Such thoughts!
The years will pass.
My hair will fade to no color.
My face will be an old apple,
my eyes thin moons when I smile.
Bent like a walking stick,
what will I think of then?
The past, captured and fixed forever?
The future, glimmering on the horizon?
In that far moment, will it seem
this life is no different from that one?
