This is the picture of a place near my home. For eight months of the year it is a dry wash, surrounded by vegetation burned brown by the summer sun. It only looks like this during the brief rainy season.
Every year the water off the surrounding hills reconfigures the falls and pools, so every spring the place shows a different face.
Two years ago here, I saw a sprig of grass growing at the edge of a rushing torrent, ready to be torn off and swept away. This poem occurred to me:
Though the bee did not come,
And the fruit did not form,
It does not follow
That the blossom lived in vain.
Of course it isn’t about bees, flowers, and seeds — or springs of grass — but about songs unsung and books unread.
I am short of time today, after Monday’s massive post, so I thought I would share this brief poem again.