FLOWER VIEWING

Like the thirteenth-century nun Abutsu,
I began to see blossoms with my eyes
closed.

Blue petals swayed above the dirt,
then August tomatoes came to mind
on the heels of the red cat.

They too are part of the dwelling
I carry about all summer
atop my neck.

I balance it and them
on a stem without support.
Most unlike the Japanese scholar

locked in a room to read
for days and nights,
weeks and months,

rope tied around his throat
to jerk hard and sudden
should he doze

away from the thoughts of others.
Meanwhile, flower-viewing parties
gathered on a night with no moon.

First published in Gettysburg Review