The cherry is the only tree in M's yard
the only thing left to say I am beautiful
among the junk and sacks of rubble and soil
and now her words are getting lost in the rain and she bows her head
a little chagrined and looking at her falling petals
The seventy two seasons of Hokkaido
to know them all by name their moves and occurances
The wind shove through the hedge gap blows me sideways
What are these tears
It is life grief
in the same measure as the voice of the wind
in the same profusion as the bluebells shaking and shaking
not metronomic but rocking with wind turmoil and wisdom
yet upright in their green each making a note
inaudible to the human but audible to the heart
which knows where to keep time
The staff of rhapsody I lean on is invisible to the eye
Two rain-soaked wood pigeon feathers grey fading to black
at the tip holding the water still as a thought
can be