To Burton Watson

                    So very much learned

                    from the feet of a master—

                    the fall of the Ch’in,

                    the rise of the T’ang and Sung,

                    tales from Masters Chuang and K’ung—

                    the long dusty roads

                    of the various poets

                    and monks, and sutras

                    chanted, the sake cups filled

                    with kinship and harmonies,

                    hardships remembered.

                    It is December, the moon

                    full, snow turned to ice

                    on the frozen ground. I raise

                    a cup of good Nihonshu 

                    to a master, a

                    lifetime’s companionship in

                    wandering borders.

                    Through hard times and good, decade

                    by decade, when my heart yearned

                    for good company,

                    I always knew where to turn.

                    Tonight, just a cup

                    below Li Po’s cold clear moon—

                    because it is impossible

                    to drink alone.