You smell
it first–
musky
dust on
a favorite
chair
flowers wilting
in a blue vase
shadows
You count
the lines
on your face
craqueleur
every bone
has a name
carved into it
nothing is
left unmarked
Then you
remember
bird song
a cone flower
growing on a
country road
cherry blossoms
falling in a
Kyoto garden
Love
ducked
around
the corner
when it saw
her coming
until she
found it
here–
hiding
in a field
full of
wildflowers.
She knows
their names
better than
she knows
her own–
coneflower,
lady-slipper,
brown-eyed susan.
They grab
at straws
to keep
alive. Their
days are
bright and
flat and
they roll
them on
their edges.
Deep in
the tall
grasses,
she can
hear them
sing–
a simple
song that
settles on
the wind.
red flower
paper umbrella
white snow
it is about
the small
things
a hummingbird
in a Kyoto
train station
the correct
etiquette
for eating
tempura
an old
woman
singing
cherry
blossoms
a garden
bench
a man’s
voice
music
Sorrow is as sorrow
does, it holds the
hand of all it loves;
when blue is bluer
than the sky can
bear it lifts it up
and holds it there.
Come visit me
in this sad place
when what you
love has turned away.
I know the names
of all the flowers
they come to me
in desperate hours.
The steps to the shrine were steep.
Young girls
dressed in
white were
selling fortunes.
A priest passed between two trees.
Someone was
calling my name,
sweet voices
in dark places;
I listened to
the small gods
and their promises.
The gray sky,
the bells ringing
through the hills,
the stone lanterns;
there was a price
to be paid that
spring day in Nara–
I didn’t know it
would be my heart.
I couldn’t find
my way among
the trees so
I turned back–
the darkness,
an old friend,
welcomed me.
It took my hand
and lead me down
the garden path
and I was patient
in the moonlight,
for the first time,
I was patient.
I’ve loved so
many things
the singing birds,
the summer sky,
the coneflowers
but most of all
the weeping
cherry blossom tree
that sheltered
everything but me.
I’ve lost you
but most of all
I’ve lost myself
because we shared
so many things–
the falling leaf,
the polished stone,
the tall grasses.
I’ll look for you
again, someday,
but not today–
today I’ll write
a poem and paint
a picture of the moon
and dream of gardens
where flowers never bloom.
rlmcdermott 