Brown fields of autumn
flecked with a flurry of snow
   where the cotton grows

   all the white bottoms
burst eagerly thru colored
   briefs to greet the sun

   My friend has kissed the
almond blossom, her lipstick
   painting the petals

   Basho's frog is dead
No sound now, but those ripples
   still reverberate

   I dissect the frog
to see what makes it jump
   but now it doesn't

   

    who would kiss a frog
even if he jumps so high
    better eat his legs

   eating a peach I
slip on a frog and fall; is
   that enlightenment?