Calligraphy in cursive

the swoop and curve
of a butterfly’s path
spring breeze
 
The sheep-haired brush with the well-worn bamboo handle hasn’t been used for a year and a half now. I remember the time when 42 of us did shodo in an auditorium with expensive carpeting. There was a thick wad of newspaper on the floor, wall to wall and then, a bright blue tarpaulin on top of it. Any spill, and there were many, would be safely captured before the black sumi ink got anywhere. Our Japanese sensei had instructed us to wear clothes that were okay to stain – I didn’t have any. I hadn’t thought of carrying clothes of that description to Japan. I came back happily, with a large splotch on my white tee, a keepsake that reminded me to keep practicing calligraphy even when the days were hard, when the words were few and when the thoughts were too dark, too many. But now when work days are lighter, the words are in abundance and the thoughts not too heavy, my inkstone rests.
 
autumn light
the jagged edges of shadows
on the gravel path