Over Mt. Fuji
                a storm, bruise

                purple, slides
                into the valley:

                in the stroller,
                daughter Asia, new

                like the sprouts
                and as confounded

                as they would be
                if suddenly they were given

                eyes, wags her head,
                right to left, as though

                her little gourd
                were the whole world

                and she wants it to turn
                all the way around

                to make the storm
                go away. The wind pipes.

                Her hair and dress
                flap wildly. She cries.

                The wind, suddenly frigid,
                flutes the stroller tubes.

                The paddies swirl
                and spray.

                I grip the handles, wheel
                her back towards home.

                The wind presses us back hard
                again and again.

                I take her into my arms,
                the stroller lifting, kiting fast

                toward Fuji. Finally
                we see our little house.

                We cannot see the door yet,
                only the front window’s

                light covering the garden.
                Then behind the glass, swaying

                with the wind and rain, mother’s
                shadow; shuddering as it empties

                over the garden floor.

                

Copyright © Kevin Dobbs, 2006. All Rights Reserved.