160814_cedar_bamboo_grass_600Back in the middle of August . . .


. . . we walked the wet . . .


. . . and misty woods . . .


. . . through the cedars . . .


. . . searching out the mottled leaves of our dear, dear friend—Chabohototogisu.


Everyone joined the search.

How to describe our joy when that demure yellow of hers finally came into sight?

We all love her, but Shizuoka Duo (yeah, those guys were there, too) seemed most affected by Chabo’s beauty. At one point, I saw them down on their knees, their backs curled, their lips nearly touching one of the delicate blossoms, and chanting (almost pleading, it seemed, to be honest) . . .    160814_chabohototogisu_2_600



I rolled my eyes once, then caught myself—for I, too, wanted to get down on my knees and chant with them, but, well, I’m just about as shy as Chabo.


Shizuoka Duo called me that night and said they had a new song. I told them to come on over to the studio. No, they said, they had to wait until everyone could come. All the Hearty Hikers.

So now it’s October—and they finally showed up just last night. I think everyone was there. There must have been seventy-five or eighty Hearty Hikers—maybe more.  They roared into the studio, a mighty river, their love for Chabo palpable.

By the way, Shizuoka Duo have been saying they’re going to help me buy some updated equipment—“once they make it”—but that hasn’t happened yet. So I took the old recording equipment from my pocket and said, “Let’s do it.”

The rest I leave to Shizuoka Duo—and all our Hearty Hiking friends.


I’m a lonely girl . . . sitting all alone

In a silent world . . . without a phone.

My pillow rests . . . on a cedar root—

My naps are tested . . . by your hiking boots.

My leaves are trodden . . . fifty times a day.

I’ve been forgotten . . . I’m past dismayed.

Do you even know I’m here? Do you know how I feel?

You’re so, so near . . . but don’t sense my appeal?


I’ll walk the woods . . . discover you.


Show you that . . . my love is true.

My green is mottled . . . with ugly black spots

Heart’s in a bottle . . . see how it rots.

When I finally flower . . . I’m demure yellow

I exude no power . . . can’t catch no fellow.

In this August haze . . . I’m nothing unique—

In a couple of days . . . I’ll wither, grow weak.

I wish you’d greet me . . . at least share a smile

That’d help me be . . . content for a while.


What are these silly . . . things you say?


It’s way too much . . . this nay, nay, nay!


It may just be . . . a single day—


But you will surely . . . lead the way.

Don’t like my name . . . it’s way too long

Who could ever frame it . . . in a song?

The red, red roses . . . they’re always praised

But who supposes . . . that I could amaze?

Are you sure you know . . . when I will bloom?

I’ve not much to show . . . I wear no perfume.

Do you really believe . . . I have a chance?

Can you conceive . . . of me at your dance?


We’ll take your hand . . . spin you round—


Until you feel . . . joy unbound.


I’ll walk the woods . . . discover you.


Show you that . . . my love is true.


I’ll walk the woods . . . discover you.


Show you that . . . my love is true.


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