I remember my first geisha sighting…
Falling from the night, her robes were
splashed with ochre, and periwinkles.

Pink chrysanthemums
in jet black hair.
A fleeting, imperfect,
accidental beauty.

I am giddy.
We start with a gentle hello
then comes the dance
low slung in her hips
moving her arms in a studied grace

It is hard not to pay attention
to the small stuff
the secret gardens
rain is in the air

We’re not a literal people,
but I lose myself.
We write in
ritualistic cadence
and she becomes
the dark, naked grapevines
of early spring.

Every morning
I open my eyes.
It is a Zen notion
A reflection

Here is a place where the dragon can rest.