This brush had a nice point,
no splashes, no frizzle;
The curve of its goat hair
inked hei
with evenness.
It leaves the red shrike-spots
in the purple tankei.
It will not rest again
on the fudeoki.
It had pride in its work,
knew a bristle removed
leaves a mark on the page.
In temple holiness
he thanks his goat-hair brush
for enduring the use.
The dawn composes birdsong.
A cat flings its body
into spring upside down.
Blossoms glow in the haze.This morning he will run
his nail down the bristles
of his new brush,
turn the bristles between
his thumb and forefinger,
dip the tip in water,
press it to the paper.
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