WebPoems

It'll be days before the pines are clear of snow.

Traveling wasn't much better for Hokusai

Than it was for Basho; a lean satchel,

Worn pack of brushes, and his colors--lucky

To find a room at the same moment the family

Next door rolled up the shutters, to look out

Across these soft-as-a-futon rooves, these pillowed branches,

The stretch of fog flung like a coverlet

Over the bay, out there where the little boy is pointing,

Past that horribly dark open water, ready to kill,

Beyond the drifts covering the country village,

In the trees at the foot of the slope,

Where nature is so far away it's perfect!

Having wandered so deep into the distance,

Hokusai smelled the buns and gyoza,

And painted the bowl of soup,

Just as beautiful as Mount Fuji.