Ode to Morning Glories
His wives and children dead,
when his house burnt down,
Issa moved into the rice shed
and still wrote haiku to you.
Praise enough.
Still, I watch your leaves
shaped like deer prints
grow again to shapely hearts.
You climbed the fence post,
steps winding up a watchtower.
Now you reach across
the fiefdom of the front yard,
bustling road to Edo,
with your silk kimonos, tapered umbrellas,
whorled brushes, yari spearheads.
Soon the way will be empty but for
coal merchants hanging on,
rattling their burlap sacks.
Will we push down black seeds again,
brushing over supple earth?
A rain-spattered packet on a popsicle stick
stands where we've settled on this address.
(Reprinted with permission of The Aurorean, 2017)
when his house burnt down,
Issa moved into the rice shed
and still wrote haiku to you.
Praise enough.
Still, I watch your leaves
shaped like deer prints
grow again to shapely hearts.
You climbed the fence post,
steps winding up a watchtower.
Now you reach across
the fiefdom of the front yard,
bustling road to Edo,
with your silk kimonos, tapered umbrellas,
whorled brushes, yari spearheads.
Soon the way will be empty but for
coal merchants hanging on,
rattling their burlap sacks.
Will we push down black seeds again,
brushing over supple earth?
A rain-spattered packet on a popsicle stick
stands where we've settled on this address.
(Reprinted with permission of The Aurorean, 2017)
