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Autumn Grasses

In fields of bush clover and hay-scent grass

the autumn moon takes refuge

The cricket’s song is gold

Zeshin’s loneliness taught him this

Who is coming?

What will come to pass, and pass?

Neither bruise nor sweetness nor cool air

not-knowing

knows the way

And the moon?

Who among us does not wander, and flare

and bow to the ground?

Who does not savor, and stand open

if only in secret

taking heart in the ripening of the moon?

-Margaret Gibson

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