The Tintinabulation

[miyako73]

It was not insanity on that day,
On that mid-afternoon in the garden
Thick with grasses, supple leaves, and bushes,
When I wandered around, stick in my hand,
Looking for spring mushrooms and fresh fern sprouts.

Anywhere was a shade of deep green or brown,
The moist mosses clinging to the high walls,
The pine needles stubborn in the bay breeze,
The firm branches in earthy camouflage,
The pots broken, dark-fired and made of clay.

Morels and ferns should be peeking in spring;
I dug deep with my dog—I found nothing,
And I looked around with my eyeglasses—
I only saw fire ants on a parade
Killing and devouring flies with wet wings.

My grandmother’s old garden was alive,
But only bloomed a baby anthurium
As bright as her laced Sunday veil;
Its curving edge echoed a tolling sound
I used to hear with her at six o’clock.

Then the freshness of spring under my nose
Turned into her scent of sweets and rosettes;
I looked above—the sky puffed wavy whites:
Was it Basho who wrote about flowers
Ringing the sound of the temple’s old bells?