The blazing semi in the yard,
acutely aware of their seventeen
-years wait for a
seventeen-day break, blare echoes of the hanabi taikai.
Hand-cut soba noodles and sweet sesame tofu
as we stare into the bamboo grove behind Nanakusa
while those semi keep singing.
It's a twenty two tatami floor, with simple sliding paper doors
and glass around the outside walls
revealing naked the interior, to the world.
And each little plant in every little garden,
trimmed and cultivated with delicate care
exposits through the humid air
that this simple pair,
she and I,
do dare to split with hashi
between us, an ocean of possibility.
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