The Absent Man
On a hill at the base of a mountain
stood an old temple dedicated to Kannon.
I paid a visit to a monk living there.
I had been there several times
meaning to drink newly picked tea with him.
As always he was absent today, too.
The three side doors of the temple were open.
Over the hearth, without fire,
a dusty pot was hanging.
blue-and-white teacup . . .
A blue blew in
and alighted on its rim.
High over the open temple,
the peak of a thunderhead, rare and radiant . . .