On The Write Path

Plum and plum blossoms

Plum and plum blossoms

Snow hushes the thrush sitting in the old plum tree, outlines twigs with small tight buds. Beneath a soft wet blanket, life waits with patience.

         old bent plum
         still strong enough to bear the snow

Inside, the glow of the pellet stove illumines faces flush with sake.

I'm tired, a bit hungry and overwhelmed by a land that tries to make me understand in a language of gestures I barely grasp.

The other guests encourage me to eat, act amazed when I pull out my own personal chopsticks. Ask questions after questions in what little English they speak. I am humbled by their efforts, more aware each minute that I cannot return the favor.

I enjoy the dark aroma of coffee. Enjoy less the soft tofu that seeks to avoid two sticks jabbing at it. My butt sits firm on a chair; my extended fingers move towards my mouth. I'm rewarded with more questions just as I complete the acrobatic feat.

What is my name; where do I work; why am I here in Yamagata; how did I hear of this guesthouse; am I married? Some questions seem a bit personal even though I know no harm is intended. The conversation switches to Japanese. I suspect someone explains that I feel uneasy... after apologies we all continue to chat.

I try to connect. I always try to connect. The warm and open-hearted people make this possible beyond differences of culture, age and personality.

They are mostly business men: medical supplies, livestock feed. One has visited Iowa.

I'm a writer. A poet. I'm visiting the land that Bashō walked through in his famous trek north. Nobuki asks for a poem. Perchance I will write one.

He lights up the room like a flame. I've met him before... but not often. The connection seems to be mutual. He is young, merely 27, and beautiful as only youth is beautiful. Yet, no doubt the flame that burns within him will keep him young for decades.

I bask in the warmth of the moment. Too tired to think, yet I will not go to bed. Not yet.

         old plum tree;
         the waiting buds:

         may I live to see your blossoms.

I show Nobuki pictures of Norway, of Costa Rica, of Portugal, of home. What reflection have I caught in a fjord, what moment in an alighting bird at the feeder, what stories told in blue and white tiles; what is the texture of my home between mountains in white winter and green summer?

He is amused by a white poodle dressed in rainbow colors, by two English poodles, cream and blue, gazing out over the valley. He shows me pictures of his four dogs. Poodles as well. I ask who is taking care of them while he travels for work. His mother.

The chatter trails off after midnight. I crawl up the stairs to my bed overlooking the old plum in the garden. The conversation below fades as I close the door. I sleep comfortably under feathers. I sleep alone.

         four dogs in the bed;
         better than sleeping alone

This morning we all look ragged. Nobuki readies for work and the return to Tokyo, home.

Tonight he will not sleep alone.

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