May I?

Already? Here it is, May. Which doesn't matter. Twice in the last 20  hours I've encountered Basho's "days and months are the travellers of eternity". Writing a traveller figure myself, I considered a nod to Basho.
(In the first place, Fred Wah turned us on to Basho in 1981-82 in Nelson, B.C. Basho as long poem. I took to the idea I read in Basho, thanks to Fred, of writing a poem and leaving it, on a stone or tree or edge of a stream--right now, in a studio at the Banff Centre, you might find the poem pinned to a spruce cut down within the last two weeks--and have often written one-offs and left them. One's floating in a scotch bottle (I'll think of the name in a minute) in Emma Lake, by now deep in the reeds. In Nelson I mimeographed poems by me or several of my mates and tacked them up around Nelson, and harvested them a week or two later--ripped, faded, run over, scratched out, kissed. (All of that applies to the poems, by the way, and not yet to me.) The Afters became more interesting than the Befores, a point driven home two years later, when the librarian at Selkirk College asked for my Hung Poems, as I'd called them, for the archive.)
This traveller I'm working on isn't as grown up as Basho.  He travels like cheap light, round and round in the same bulb.
I forgot to mention yesterday's encounter with Basho's words: as epigraph in a film screened by Alberto Becerril, the film-maker. In the film we see the cycle of corn near a town the size of Banff not far from Mexico City. We see water in the form of rain and drops and one thin cascade, all of these persistent but precarious at the same time.
And now, sorry but the sun looks as warm as it's been for days. I'm heading outside.