I ladle tea in the evening
and think of the Japanese film-maker Ozu
of a circle made to turn
by directors and not producers.

Things, all things, seem suddenly simple
like the ladle which makes my hand
a farmer’s or that of a fisherman
either or both in a time before electricity
for ladles need no thermostats, no switches.

Even the most complex of undertakings
are made of small parts
alone in the creation
but connected in their purpose.

This, Ozu tells me, is life
he who died on his own birthday
December 13th, 1965
and is buried beneath a stone
which says “mu”, nothingness.

Log in or registerto write something here or to contact authors.