Owl in Sugi’s Branches

Dear Jōmon Sugi,

my Fuji golden moon

poplar branch, holding only dreams.

Balkan as the bob-and-dip of an oud

meeting tambora in full tilt;

caged as a canary,

illuminating as an Arabesque.

Out of forever’s pocket and logarithmically singing

old growth songs:

hips grounded, looking out-and-back, out-and-back again,

her ears pensive to a darkening

crosshatch of wilderness.

The Owl’s feet in your branches

tastes like a bucket

emptied of the world’s palette.

As moon as a shadow, chaste as ice,

unmentioned as a reflection,

broken by the night.

Another dreamer’s plaintive cry.

Free as a leaf in Autumn’s hurl.