Rice Age

At Hime station only the elderly

board the JR trains.

Youth has abandoned the

toil of the rice fields

for the glitter

of Tokyo streets.

They ride the train into an autumn sunset

comparing in whispers how much their hands resemble

the gnarled branches of

the passing cypress trees.

Cradled in the hum of Sunday trains

they dream in colors denied in waking hours

by cataracts and glaucoma.

Bright leaves continue to fall

in memory.

Only the red shift of August 6th

still attaches itself to tired retinas.