RICE PADDIES

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.