In the shadow of Basho: Words and blossoms

Grit makes oyster words
Chewed cud-like, spat out, pearl-wise:
My shell is empty!

Early heat, late freeze
Kills blossoms still on the trees:
They don't get to fall.

Wasabi powder
Awake dulled senses brightly!
I need heat not grit!

(Photograph my OWN)

oysters cooked on fire on charcoal

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