(someone said ink was the inventor
of philosophy which was the inventor
of nature)

At the earliness of the hour
as a solitary fixture of the place
words come at a snail’s pace
the accidental rhyme
the slanting slope of line
hand to pen, pen to paper
mystery of a runaway mind

It brings to mind a question:
how do you know nature?
in the backgroud dog bark 
cooing of mourning dove and
the memory of professor basho
who in reluctant stir of class
looked back to the blackboard
to find the chalk and write:
nature doesn’t know itself
so how could we?