- My teacher sits beside me,
- holding his shakuhachi like an oar.
- Blow as though you were
- a fisherman rolling a boat.
- He walks the rhythm, hums
- the tune. I see myself alone,
- small waves rocking my boat
- like a cradle. I stop and wait.
- He explains: each note, each phrase
- has a shape. Like a leaf.
- With thumb and finger he makes
- the movement, narrow, then wider
- at the top, he brings it to a close.
- I want to see this in your sound:
- two falling leaves and a root.
- He reminds me: You have nowhere
- To go, you are in the mountains.
- I am on the bike, concentrating
- on every rock and curve, braking
- before I fall. I ask someone the way
- to Sturtevant Falls. You're almost there.
- When I see a cascade at the end
- of the path I think I am there.
- This is the way it is, just to say
- I've arrived, somewhere.
- I am learning to play chikudo:
- The bamboo way, with my legs
- tucked under my bottom and a pillow
- to cushion my aging knees. I think
- of those old men on stage at Koyasan Hall
- entranced by their own sound,
- no sheet music, eyes closed as in zazen,
- oblivious to the occasional cough,
- the swish of fans.
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