The seed speckles the snow like buckshot piled neatly under the branch where we, fingers numbed, tied the little chalet to the lowest limb of the ancient maple. The birds stand staring as the squirrel swings slowly in the breeze.
It should be easy, my friend said, to imagine yourself a character in a novel you particularly like, like I’ve found myself in any number of Tom Clancy novels, since I can easily become a CIA agent, it fits me.
I know I’d shoot myself in the foot or worse, and I’d keep no secrets if you even threatened to torture me, and the odds of me finding my own Doctor Watson are slim, harder still since I abhor even the thought of opium, and I gave up my pipe years ago when the girls found it odd or disgusting, not the cool I sought.
So I’m left with being a young Japanese woman negotiating life in modern Tokyo, or the countryside, but I’m nit sure Banana Yoshimoto would buy me as her protagonist, so I suppose I could do a quick deep dive into ballet and try and pass for Shimamura, but I know I’d opt for Yoko and that wouldn’t suit Kawabata at all
Come to think of it, I have a hard enough time being myself, and even as my own author, I find that I would never accept myself as my protagonist, so that role is still available if you would care to audition.
As I stare out the window and watch the snow slowly build on the limbs of the now barren crab apple, painting it with a whiteness that bears heavily, giving the smaller branches a better view of the ground in which their fruit of the summer lies buried.
I am forced to wonder if the tree continues to watch me, if its vision is clouded by the snowy blanket in which it wraps itself this day, and if it does, what must it think of someone so sedentary when it, bearing its winter burden can still dance gently in the morning wind.
If Joshu asks you which is the true eye will you climb to the top of the mountain in search for it? There are a thousand mountains where Manjushri may dwell staring out at the world— how will you know which one? A cloud may reflect your sight simplifying all.
The Japanese invented haiku certain that a painting of great beauty could be completed with only a few strokes of the brush.
The Japanese have no word for what we claim is higher order poetry, academic and pedantic are two other English words which easily apply. And the Japanese are hard put to comprehend so much of what we deem experimental, the result, a friend named Yoshi said, of what seems the odd scraps of a dictionary torn apart by an unexpected tornado.
In Tokyo every tree knows that at least four poems lie within it, each awaiting the appropriate season.
As a child I know the winters must have been milder, as it was never too cold to have my parents take is to Sheridan Park where my father would drag the old wooden toboggan up the chute adjacent to the stairs as we ran ahead, and smile as we hurtled down seeing how far we could go across the snow packed runway.
After an hour, when our hands were blue, the mitten clips long since defeated, he would once again smile as we drove to Louie’s for a foot long and a couple of orders of curly fries.
I’m thinking the weather changed right about the time my parents packed off to Florida, as if God had given them some Noah-like warning that winters would soon get ugly, or maybe He was just trying to help Detroit, since my step- siblings had to have certain cars, while I struggled through winter in the north in my leaky, rusting Opel.