Poem: Michelia

The rain has stopped tapping on the broad leaves

of the parasol tree. And the firm grey walls’ eaves

still dripped on bricks the cold water of spring. 

Sparrows patrolled along with the mist of morning, 

hopping around dry isles in puddles of mud. 

Then came a woman with rusty sounds of her bicycle, 

holding an old shallow basket made of wisteria wood. 

In the basket lied plucked michelias of white petals, 

that bounced around with the dew that lingers. 

The woman stopped and set her bicycle aside, 

she moved the flowers apart with her white fingers. 

Michelias of white, picked in the rain from the countryside, 

never blossomed, their yellow pollen crouched and hidden. 

Many went fore to attach them to their clothes, 

the scents of one day, the sweetness of only so close, 

till their brown peddles disclose the pistils half-open. 

Mist faded under the sun, the woman couldn’t stand here, 

she placed the rest on the damp, moss-wrapped stone, 

and rode off with empty baskets alone. 

Now it’s only the wall, the sparrows, and the michelia.