"and now I think it is the beautiful uncut hair..."
-Whitman
An endless blossoming of lillies reigns
within my mind, with each new
pond: a blue
deeper than Marliac imagined, red
as blood invariably lost, or gold
I've never found when digging. Streams of koi
ballet through shallows in each one before
it's even filled. But always limits rise,
and mostly they are time, as now: this week
another lease comes due. My
hands are raw
from restoration of a lawn. What once
reflected luminescent dances of
shibunkins now returns to mundane rye.
Perhaps the next pond will risk permanence
and she'll delight in all the hues I've dreamed
so often, while sarassas glide beneath
a crystal surface, unperturbed, perhaps
our hyacinths will open amethyst
and nymphea will blossom endlessly.
