My haiku teacher
He wore a thin beard, eyes alive with faint laughter, and non-descript clothes. I saw him eat food, but he never put on weight. He had a cottage, but he never lived in it. He had a long name, which nobody ever used. And nobody asked.
One summer evening, raindrops were slowly falling outside the window. "Haiku is the art," he told me with his faint eyes, "of detailed silence."
I smiled back at him, but did not quite understand. Perhaps I do now.
A month after that, I could no longer find him - did I dream it all?