long ago in a place called Zao
high in the far north hills,
near a spot made known by Basho,
is a hill-side hot spring, created by
a Shinto spirit, so it’s told.
on a November day three daring
youths flouted the closed warning,
went in and bore the bliss
of the waters, the forest music
and the beauty of the woodlands.
the hills were clothed bright red
with maple groves, thick and deep.
hot water gushed from gaps,
with a chorus of birds and their pals,
the mystical setting came alive.
friend Norm gave me a seedling
of a red leaf Japanese maple.
I see in it the otherworld’s hills,
feel the water and hear the songs.
I am carried back.
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