by Arthur Nahill
I.
Sleepless
I watch the sky mimic
the many colors of concrete
while squalls of sparrows
swell the rising current
of early morning.
II.
Outside the Shingon temple
my Buddhist guide calls it
happy smoke and I am happy
to stand in clouds
of it inhaling deeply.
For you now
no more troubles
he smiles waving wrinkled hands
as though shooing swarms
of tiresome flies.
III.
I have only these few lines
to send you
because the bamboo grove
is whispering insistently
and the yellow carp
are shivering to the surface
mouthing the air
as if about to sing.
IV.
In the garden I toe
a dying cicada the size
of a small child’s fist
and I become aware
of the suffering of cicadas
but only in the passing
way I feel the weight
of my clothes
as I undress in the dark.
The imagery and the essence–perfect postcards. Lovliness and brevity with a profound undercurrent. So much there and here. Bravo.