if sunlight on moss
brightens its green
if shade echoes the stone
if the ledge’s perfect rectangle
holds the garden
if the azalea blooms
if I stand in no one’s shadow
if I sit in seiza
if the pipes weren’t rammed
down the throat of Saigyo’s well
if Mt. Agora were clear of debris
if we heard the bush warbler’s cry
if we could return every gratitude in kind
if we could move like the women in blue aprons, rubber boots
in the grace of their paper-making
if the intricately carved wooded figures at the four corners
of the shrine protected us
if we could keep being fed by the sweet mochi
if we could navigate the rain
if beauty could overcome suffering
if the sea’s water could be cleared of radiation
if the air stayed scented with prayer
if we could make a wishxx ring the gong wake up the gods
if the garden’s order could ripple out into this world