Apr 2012
One square
poised on the board
unimportant, overlooked
by Bishop's blessing
and Knight's March.
As Queen's cut circles
round lost rice fields,
the rain runs clear
off curved, stone tiles.
The luckiest children
play here in exile
barefoot in pure mud
or asleep on woven reeds
their moments unfettered,
ruleless; unlimited
on an island of green
in a monochrome sea.
Here, they rest.
The peace of pawns
who never learned to play.
poised on the board
unimportant, overlooked
by Bishop's blessing
and Knight's March.
As Queen's cut circles
round lost rice fields,
the rain runs clear
off curved, stone tiles.
The luckiest children
play here in exile
barefoot in pure mud
or asleep on woven reeds
their moments unfettered,
ruleless; unlimited
on an island of green
in a monochrome sea.
Here, they rest.
The peace of pawns
who never learned to play.
I wrote this poem while traveling in Japan. I passed a little wooden hut in the middle of a series of rice fields that struck me because it was so out of context with the industrial cities I was traveling through. I thought about all the wars and conflict Japan has seen, and wondered how long that little wooden hut had been standing there.
