The sound of someone
blowing his nose with his hand
the cherry blossoms.
This juxtaposition of the delicate with the indelicate always pushes my edge of practice. Aitken Roshi points out in The River of Heaven, that while it may be blasphemy to blow one’s nose in the presence of sacred cherry blossoms, we can’t be taking it all so seriously. The fleeting nature of life is such that a moment spent getting riled up over something is a moment gone. Basho and the Prajnaparamita remind us: neither sacred nor profane – except that mind makes it so.
108zenbooks 
This reminds me of the “Chink” in Even Cowgirls Get the Blues
“I believe in nothing, everything is sacred. I believe in everything, nothing is sacred.”
Love this. Though I’m certainly no poet, when verse spontaneously appears, it’s almost always this very juxtaposition…
Shucks, I’d probably use a wad o’ cherry blossoms as a tissue. But then, I’m the guy who drops ashes on the Buddha, too. Dunderhead.
I love your responses! What can I say? Kensho in snot.
sharanam, our drain ditches are filled with organge lillies… they’ll never seem ordinary to me again!