poem for red pine


Bill Porter went West, took a new name––and came back from the East to spread the word.

A master of the shadow art, he trails behind, recasting Chinese ideograms into new lines for English minds.

He works from a second floor study in Port Townsend, deciphering black strokes from faraway days with sharp eyes, diamond mind––a time when hearts burned­­: writers of the Silent Word.

On the wall, a Tibetan tanka, and a small painting of bamboo with a poem by Wang Wei.

Through a window, the Cascade Mountains. Through another window, the ocean. Through another window, the branch of a plum tree.

Pine trees and bamboo sway in the  morning wind.

Light brightens a new day as the pine tree’s shadow disappear, leaving no trace.

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