She felt each pedal of decay deeply.
We spent evenings ferrying snails and catepillars
off cycle paths in the arboretum.
Wherever we turned, the idea of gravity collected its props
but no one mentioned Bagdad;
even reruns of I Dream of Jeannie vanished
along with the space program itself.
Strands of daisies passed hands held for them.
The farther we thought ahead
visitors only folded the when and where
in homage to poets who’d prepared the landscape
not to worry about lumpiness on Mt. Yoshino
or objections from the audience
pushed faraway from any important gathering.
I made it in time with my string and paper cups to tug around
as long as the courtesy holds, the confusion of plum blossoms with falling snow
like the quiet theories of comings and goings,
points of light cratering, twinkling
until enough star-stuff gathers to fire up again
as ditches of eggs overflow in tadpoles
to gather in cups for the kids.