The End of the Rice Age

At Hime station only the

elderly board the JR trains.

The 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 low whispers how much their

hands resemble the gnarled branches

of the passing cypress trees along the river bank.

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 tainted with mushroom clouds

. Only the red shift of August 6th

still attaches itself to their tired retinas now.