Nishi Hongwanji, Kyoto

Our time in Kyoto was a frenzy of trains
and cramped soba bars where my elbows
felt immense as drifting continents.

On every sidewalk, collisions with pullulated humanity
dashing to salvage the wrecks of their lives
were avoided narrowly if at all. Our surge through

these instants smeared them together, so
no memory from that week means just one thing,
except for one: we sheltered from a storm

on temple stairs. Shoeless devotees chanted,
tossing change into the saisen box, and we lingered
like river stones to watch the house-massive gingko

stand unmoving in the rain.

From its wealth of cleft leaves, one sometimes trembled
then dropped to join the gloriole of others
autumn endowed to the gravel.

Its limbs were grown so heavy the monks braced them
on crutches, and a sign among its roots testified
it was older than our own frantic homeland.

Motionless, it had withstood centuries of fire
and war to gather that moment

and return it to us as a blessing.