One creates a work in solitude, independently
Meticulously and cautiously and with restraint.
One pens and polishes poems like Basho*, until
They shine like a fox’s tail in the winter moon.
One deems it perfect—but unless you breath
The insight of daily life into your thoughts
Your philosophy of crowned wisdom remains
Dry and withered—no more than scraps
Of writing, a man with a pen in his hand
Might make for idleness or for practice