or glaze, or, perhaps good plastic, so I write down ―vase.‖ and when I see two red leaves on the earth beside the rose bush,


I do not know from which tree they have fallen so I write down ―red leaves.‖ And as I set the vase and the leaves on the table, I write down


rose just cut beside the vase two red leaves


And although I do not know the details of what I have just done, the sadness of it all cracks my heart open.


To return to Neruda‘s poem, maybe I‘ll try to answer those questions, the ones Neruda poses. It takes the heart of a poet to see the rose as both naked and fully dressed, to feel passionate about its beauty, and its thorns. It takes the muscles of a poet to know when to conceal his or her roots, or the strength behind his or her poetry, to know when to whisper rather than shout. And it takes the mind of the poet to think imaginatively of things as abstract as a thieving automobile, or what regrets an automobile might have. All of these belong in haiku, at the right times.


And is there anything in the world sadder than a train standing in the rain? Perhaps so. Perhaps what is sadder is when a person is able to write and share haiku but is unable to do so—or worse yet, chooses not to. We are better off when we share our haiku with one another. If any other haiku poets are like me, they ache every day, with every haiku they read, to have their hearts cracked open.


Colin: Thank you for giving us much to ponder, Michael.


71


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