The Long Foam

Trees without leaves

Trees in flower

What is contained between

In the bud

Of imminent coexistence

May be a bubble or not

Thoughts escape their container

Seasonally

It is not always a crime

At least not self-inflicted

When a circle breaks

Into another circle

Many in the pond

Would argue old Bashō was

A secret ninja

So deft in composing

In rhythm with the end

Of all things

And seldom ripping throats

Soft, the hand reaches down

Subtle fingers to pluck

The sewing girl’s needle

From the paralyzed frog

Remember when we lay

On the banks of the river

Two holes in our shirt

From the snares we made

Out of reeds when we rubbed

Grass on our faces to see

What we’d look like older

Much later, the tired village opens

Its reflection in dank loam

Bilious pools and shorn casements

A less than stealthy resignation 

Froth issues from the frog’s mouth

Flecked blades of grass tiny petals

Slowly submerged in the foam

As the white bubbles grow

And alter the direction of the light

In each lenticular orb

So that our scene is myriad

Again

Unsightly the ninja never stops for long

When the globose faces gather

To stare at the mortal hands operant

In the bubble of time a circle feracious