Tunda Ho had no clock. But he swept the sand floor of his cave
with a broom of grasses and twine
every morning at nine.
Dust, briefly, in the mountain air.
It was hot that year.
An eagle observed Tunda Ho, neutrally.
There was room for everyone.
Snow water, wild vegetables. Dancing on the rocks, perching on a branch to pray. Tunda Ho playing.
“In nests of twigs and leaves
eggs crack, eyes open. The warmth of the Spring is love.”
What a suprise! It was Lao Pu´s Haiku floating by, like perfume, or the remembrance of perfume, or an insight into undefinability.
Tunda Ho heard it, and cried, and replied without thinking:
“The old peasant died in the Cherry Orchard. Some people and some trees love each other. It is always cold underground.”
Lao Pu lived with a hundred owls
in a bamboo hut
on the edge of a village in the valley.
He was in the garden, cleaning his teeth with a twig,
when he felt Tunda Ho´s Haiku come tumbling down the hillside.
"This Haiku adds so much to mine", Lao Pu said.
Amazement.
Sunshine.
He would reply.
Years passed.
Some trees grow quickly.
Some trees grow slowly.
Sometimes it depends on conditions.
Sometimes conditons are difficut to define.
Mark the Mystic Activist, La Sierra de Loarre, Aragón. Primavera 2024.
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