Unga

This minor town wears

a cross on its stomach,

where it stores the rice:

vertical, the stroke of the reedy canal

from which it draws its name;

horizontal the straddle of the rail-bridge.

A verdant village

not quite transformed into a suburb

of the great Metropolis:

strapped by cable wires and rail,

edged and laced with neat gardens of onions and peppers,

great cabbages, the many potatoes of Japan.

The farmers' sons in uniform take the train to town --

it leaves every 7 minutes either way

but doesn't run past midnight, not to Unga.

The daughters in blue bonnets tend the farm of scholars,

weeding football fields and conference centers.

Persimmons rot overhead and underfoot.

In the station parking lot,

hundreds of bicycles rest like leggy winged insects,

spinning silver after the rain;

snub-nosed Hondas nibble at the green lettuce edges,

heavy metal beetles compacting silken soil

sifted by centuries of tender farmers.

On a daily walk along the canal

to visit the bamboo grove, the graves of my adopted ancestors,

I stop as if to pray in a leaf-softened dark place

hammocked among the roots of trees.

Within it I sink to the ankle into the fragrant dirt

held under by the gods of earth.

                                    Japan, 10/94