Eight Ways of Looking at the Ozarks

After Basho, Buson, and Issa

I

Even in the Ozark Mountains
hearing the bob-white’s call,
I long for the Ozarks.

II

The origin of sound:
a frog jumps into a fish pond—
a snake slides in on his heels.

III

Walking sideways down the ridge,
I pluck a dogwood blossom—
even then, I know I’m on the roof of Hell.

IV

I pour some whiskey onto a tick
crawling along my arm—
maybe he is lonesome too.

On my knees at the Brush Arbor,
praying for God’s forgiveness—
all the while, I keep swatting at mosquitos.

V

Grandpa’s driving the tractor—
my brother and I throw hay up on the trailer—
Grandpa’s bent like a hay hook.

My Great-Grandfather fought in the Great War.
All that’s left of his dreams:
the moss-covered foundation of a house.

VI

The first sleet this winter—
the deer shake and flee the field;
they search for shelter too.

New Year’s Day—
picking up fireworks from last night
with a moonshine hangover.

VII

The last snow’s melted, I hope—
my daughter said she climbed an oak and prayed.
The leaves she shook came floating down the creek to me.

Winter is officially over—
every other day,
a new couple announces a pregnancy!

The church bells stop ringing—
the cool sound keeps coming my way
by the sweet smell of dogwood blossoms.

My daughter pretends she’s a bluebird—
her songs are even sweeter
than a bluebird’s.

VIII

The origin of art:
a fiddler sawing mournfully
way down in the Ozark Mountains.

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