Here, the air is buffeted by kites,
the tug of carp, the blossom’s kiss,
Waves of fire coil through a paralysis of storm,
and the song of the Samurai
is whetted sweetly
in arcs of chosen light.
Through snow,
through the night’s ink,
bandy men come trotting,
thatched men
with feet the size of snowflakes,
each warmed by spoonfuls of lantern light;
the breath from their paper lungs
does not disturb the pieties of smoke.
In the kindling house
tea blooms in amber steam,
fans rustle insinuations,
tinder screens slide their propriety.
Here, the tides of meticulous oceans
are stilled,
even the wind is content
with an exact debris of leaves.