Shidarezakura
A childhood tree
my Father chopped down,
grunting and griping
in the Summer heat:
“It has to be done,
it has been dead for years,”
said with pale wood chips
lodged in his mustache
(And he was not fibbing —
It did not bloom
for four springs,
and its thin little twigs
would creak in the wind)
“I know, I know…
but it is such a shame”
was all I could mutter —
He started the chainsaw
and sundered my words,
trying to finish
his cumbersome chore
So I watched him go
under petrol stenches,
Branch by frail branch;
A few broke to pieces,
displaying their rot
As they met the ground
And when most was gone,
I looked at the stump
to realize it all —
No more pink petals
stuck in my hair,
No more plump bees
scouring for pollen,
Not one more bud
to signal the Season…
I stopped my Father there
and asked for a moment
to weep for the Weeping:
A steward to Earth
cut down to the ground,
A muse of my spirit
now stowed in the Past
The Gardener
Disheveled with a shovel,
I inherited the dirt
and dug with all my muscle
To make something worthy
of all that was lacked
Years I tilled, years I tended,
my back hunched or arched —
Time’s Sands to fertilize,
Vexed tears to water
Until petals appeared
But as soon as they yielded,
the Estate reversed;
I worked to see nothing
But myself, Inherited
by the dirt, perennial
Walks of Life
Some walks of life run —
A marathon per minute
down jagged roads,
Approaching destinations
most souls only dream
Some walks of life stagger —
At night, sway cirrhotic
By glaring dead ends,
Feigning a freedom
that will never be true
Some walks of life limp —
A lumbar at loss
and throbbing eternal,
but still do they try
to move and to prove
Some walks of life skip —
That puerile patter
through gold-plated paths:
A sweet sense of youth
not yet grown away
But my walk of life,
it does not walk at all —
It lies in the sheets,
in pillows and dozes…
Never to move
but for tosses and turns