Read the excerpt from "Digging"
The cold smell of potato mould, the squelch and slap
Of soggy peat, the curt cuts of an edge
Through living roots awaken in my head.
But I've no spade to follow men like them.
Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pen rests.
I'll dig with it.
Read the haiku by Bashō.
When the winter chrysanthemums go,
there's nothing to write about
What common concern do these poems share?