_44. Hiroshima (Sestina)

It’s raining in a city of bells.
The A-bomb dome no longer keeps out rain
but forms a skeleton chime’s note
to call to ground a thousand cranes.
The paper soaks up water,
slowly turns to ash.

The burial mound is full of ash
in a dome shaped like a bell
sustained by what water,
what terrible gray rain
do the wings of cranes
wing through cloud and steam to note?

I heard in the air a fugue note;
who is the we that rained ash
on this ground? I crane
my neck to see the memorial’s bell.
From here what rain
do I inherit, what water?

The heat of July turns air to water
the phoenix trees take note,
grow greener in the rain
fertilize with bone & ash
and blossom to the music of bells
hung about the city by cranes.

The domes of paper cranes
bow with the certainty of water.
I have been my whole life a bell
and never seen to note
the undone dust of ash
in a sweet-smelling rain.

Today in Hiroshima it rains
and I bend like a folded crane
to witness the turning of ash to ash;
I don’t know what to do with all the water
the sound it makes on the pavement, the notes
of tiny shattered bells.

Dark storm of ash, let loose the rain
and on the bell strike the wish of cranes:
peace, and water’s noun, a long, low note.

remix Friday #6