The gardens beautiful without a doubt

And so the crowds throng

Passing through the not quite Japanese garden

Along the path and over the bridge,

Pausing there to gaze long at the water lilies,

Imagining those icons made famous

By the painter’s hands, they contemplate the color

Of sky and clouds shimmering in the pond,

They move then through the shadowed trees,

Along the cindered path opening bright and wide

Into the cottage gardens, full floral, with

Lavender borders, hollyhocks in high

Color, roses everywhere on green lattices,

Momentarily, they sit, benched, by the borders,

Holding guidebooks

Or huddled on the steps, journaling.

Rested, they pass into the pink house framed in green

Shutters, ivy and white roses climbing its walls,

They shoulder from room to room

Peering closely at imitations

Of the great painter’s works:

Crowds of French, crowds of Americans,

Crowds of Germans, Italians, Greeks,

Czechs, and Yugoslavs

British, Spanish, Scots, Belgians, and Dutch,

Latinos, and Latinas, even Solomon Islanders, and Japanese:

Flowers of all sorts pass through the blue and

Yellow kitchen, the bedrooms, and windowed study,

They celebrate the house, examining every detail,

And yet, they fail to pause for the art

that moved the painter’s eye,

An inspiration, the clearest lines

and the bluest blues on every wall:

The Wave, A Thousand Views Along the Tokaido Road --

Still slightly creased, as if just lifted from the packing boxes

Of precious porcelain



Möbius The Poetry Magazine, NY: 2009