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.