Only yesterday. Matsuo Basho did not do much thinking back. I wonder why.

a ’57 Chevy
purple and tan, I wish it were red.
a summer’s day

School’s out, the sun is hot,
counting cows, license plates from other states,
a book served as the internet.

A loaf of bread,
bologna, cheese, mustard and a pickle
Mom made lunch for us,

Ah, the Good old days,
hearty laughter, wind and dust,
as I remember it.

[A rough draft, but you know how these things are. The road stretches out, it keeps calling. When will we ever go back. ‘Tis true tis sad. How Dao. Tis true.]

Matsuo Basho is, for much of the time, an observer of nature. It is summer, we may assume, and the poet is in his garden tending his flowers and enjoying the butterflies. Perhaps, he is thinking of Zhuangzi’s butterfly, and dreaming he too is a butterfly. But along comes a gust of wind, and the butterfly flees for the protection of the willow tree.

each time the wind blows,
a butterfly flees my garden,
for a willow tree
— Matsuo Basho, Summer, year unknown

Japanese

蝶のゐなほる, also, Chō no wi na horu; horu (abandons, leaves). Compare cho no niwa 蝶の庭, butterfly garden.

One can read more into this haiku. Sometimes a butterfly is an omen good luck. Sometimes it is a symbol of a dead person’s soul, more often it is simply a thing of joy, a fleeting moment of pleasure.

What is your take?