Basho’s Temple Bells
Temple bells die out.
Fragrant blossoms remain.
A perfect evening.
—Basho
Long ago in some forgotten temple
where time is measured by the tide, the bells
keep chiming, chiming: die before you die,
before the tide, the final tide, goes out.
The orchards on the temple grounds so fragrant,
year in year out, until one spring no blossoms.
Memories, memories, only they remain.
What was that fragrance? It started with an a—
Memories fade—but now, this now is perfect.
Acacia blossoms! Déjà vu—this evening.
John Whitney Steele is a psychologist, yoga teacher, assistant editor of Think: A Journal of Poetry, Fiction and Essays, and graduate of the MFA Poetry Program at Western Colorado University. A Pushcart Prize nominee, his poems have been published widely. His two collections, The Stones Keep Watch, and Shiva’s Dance, were published by Kelsay Books. John lives in Colorado and enjoys hiking in the mountains.
Amethyst Review 