Fuji-san, its snow cap slowly retreating,
smiles down on the ever goldening rice shoots.
The holy mountain pays no notice to the Shinkansen
hurtling its way from Tokyo to Osaka
not pausing to pay homage to the gods
who inhabit the venerable volcano and who
have grown tired awaiting the favor of those
rushing, always rushing, to be somewhere else.
Fuji-san knows that those entombed
in the darting metal coffins may later
realize what they have missed this day.
In Todai-ji, the great Buddha waits
patiently for the daily visitors, some
who prostrate themselves before him, still
shaken by Fuji-san’s stern visage that day.
Only the young rice shoots truly understand
the great Buddha’s fondest desires.
Later the Shinkansen heads back to Tokyo
again ignoring the ever patient gods
in their home touching the Honshu sky.