WebPoems

Dots mean rice, rocks, bark, and autumn leaves;

Jagged lines in rows shade the edge of the paddies,

Make the thatch, and build up the support for the bridge.

Circles make hats and barrel lids, to pure to be grown.

Together, the community cuts and threshes,

The work proceeding in rhythm, from blade to board

To barrel, carried by human and horse into the granary.

The whole town depends on one crop,

Becomes a single hive, at least for this week.

Hypnotized by the songs, and the swaying,

Some see grains of rice as the sand, or dust in air.

Others imagine the clouds in the bay

As chaff and gluten foaming over the edge of the pot.

This close to the economy, hoping for fair weather

And no taxes, the workers, collectively,

Envision a pile of rice as big as Mount Fuji.