Since I opened the pages of Being and Time, his words, "Death is a way to be, which Dasein takes over as soon as it is," have lingered in the back of my mind for a week, like a silent check on my immigration dream: being a poet who can write in an adopted tongue and find his own way by moonlight.
At twilight, while walking on a wooden path around Lake Ontario, I hear the sound of the grass growing beneath my feet, and the air is filled with the scent of wild flowers. Just a stone's throw away, two seagulls take flight for the lake.
dewdrops on a leaf
the notes of an erhu
come from afar
Haibun Today, 6:4, December 2012
