A Samurai rests toward the sound
Of sun melting snow.
Elm branches slope and point
In the direction of time turning.
Earth’s belly has been burning for eons.
There is often a fiery labor before birth.
My children wonder
What life was like inside of me.
I understand their need to know
What exists beneath the surface—
Their lives before this life.
Out attachment to each other
Is translated from flesh
Into the language or everyday, and I
Concern myself with a legacy
Of stories short lived.
So many endings to consider.
This doesn’t mean I shouldn’t try.
Children, there was a time
When a mother just like me
Watched a uniformed man
Toss her son into the air,
Then shoot him to the ground.
If it had been a different autumn
She would have been cradling
Her infant while dividing daffodil
Bulbs for spring. It is too much.
For the sake of our story
I must narrow the focus.
I begin with the Samurai.
Samurai know their obligations
Begin with light. Our people
Celebrate this miracle as well.
All of us dwindle in octane blue—
It can’t be undreamed.
Every generation or so,
The world goes mad.
Luminaries are extinguished.
And my children, this is the part
That must be told.