Long ago in Japan, the great poet Basho lived for a time like a hermit in Fukagawa. There he ate his food, slept his sleep, lived his life, and wrote his poems.
Not far from his hut, a wild cherry tree grew beside a river. Its late summer cherries were so sweet Basho could never find words to describe them.
One hot August day, Basho came along the river hungry for cherries, and saw a fox climbing down out of the tree. Its white muzzle was stained red from the many cherries it had eaten.
“Kitsune!” Basho yelled. “Leave those cherries alone! Scat!”
The fox stopped and looked Basho over. “The crows told us a poet had come to live around here. You must be the one.”
Basho bowed proudly.
“And you think you deserve these delicious cherries all for yourself?” The fox continued haughtily. “I’m afraid I can’t agree.
“We foxes are far better poets than humans are.
In fact, some of the best poems humans known were actually whispered to them as they slept, by foxes.
We’ve given you our leftover poems-and you think they’re masterpieces! I’ll eat these cherries whenever I feel like it.” The fox turned to go.
“I had no idea foxes were such magnificent poets! Basho thought. “Wait!” he called. The fox turned around.
“I am no ordinary poet,” Basho said with quiet pride.
At that, the fox sat back on its haunches and looked interested. “A great poet, eh? Well, there’s something there after all! Very well, great poet. I will discuss this matter with you in the spring.” With that the fox trotted off, its nose in the air.
All winter Basho ate his food, slept his sleep, lived his life, and wrote his poems. And from time to time, struggling to stay warm on his thin sleeping mat, he felt his mouth watering at the thought of late summer cherries.
That spring, when the cherry tree by the river hung thick with glowing white blossoms, he met the fox again.
“Good day. Kitsune,” said Basho politely.
“Ah, great poet! Ohayo,” said the fox, bowing slightly. “I’ve not forgotten you. Here is my offer. I am the leader of all the foxes in these mountains. We agree to let you have all the cherries of this tree-but only if you can write us one good haiku. You’ll have three chances. We only ask for one, and it needn’t be great-only good.”
Basho smiled happily to himself. One good haiku-that would be easy!
“Meet me here when the May moon is full,” the fox called as it disappeared into the underbrush. Continue reading →
aborted poet 