Where I lived for a childhood
the night grass was as magical as the moon;
coolly white and soft, like new snow beautiful,
and deeply piled by the monsoons.
There was a flower (I never learnt its name)
that bloomed one night a year,
following, with its delicate bluish face,
the arc that the full moon steered.
There was a garden of small temples,
a shrine to the wind and other deities,
where tea was served to guests in porcelain shells
carried over bridges of red-painted filigree.
On the low, carved tables scattered about
black pots stood etched with cloud-shaped trees;
each pot held a bud, each had its silent knot
from the waiting throng of, mostly, Chinese.
And then the moon rose fat-faced and yellow.
The few lanterns appeared to fade in the silver air.
In minutes, as in a spell, all the buds opened.
There were so many quiet people there.
