Unlike Us Who Shrivel Separately
The morning glories
Brandish side by side and then
They wither, wither.
~ Hokushi (Englished by Phillip Whidden)
It is as if the vines and tendrils grow
Because some God thinks He has made them for
A realm eternal where they never know
Such things as fungus or red mites at war
With beauty. Mites, those tiny spiders, clot
Their webs beneath the leaves and suck them dry
As Arizona bones. Arachnids blot
The cloisonne French horns the hue of sky
And devils’ mouths enough to make them weak.
Perhaps the flowers presumed that rising side
By side would give a holy saint’s own peak
Protection, granting blessings Buddha-wide.
But fungus scorns the prohibition God
Presumed on dying. Fungus isn’t awed.
~ Phillip Whidden