They say the Master read a lot
In secret, silence, solitude.
And so, they say, his haiku’s not
They point at eighteen thousand lines,
And, shrugging, claim they cannot know
If in the cherry-blossomed snow,
The Master buried evidence.
From where I see, the Master saved
(If at all he plagiarized)
The poetry that no one cared
To keep so deeply memorized.
And if you ask me who he was:
A voracious reader, sure.
Avaricious writer, more,
Who pries into his present tense
And pays the price of making sense
To pilfer moments that comprise
The prize of living daily lives.