Jii

It was as if he could walk on glass

When he whitewashed the ceiling panes

Of the greenhouses every May,

But he was just as good at picking his way

Across the windows’ trussing

A bucket hanging from his slight frame.

His experience at placing

His feet on the exact corner

Made it look like he was gliding

Over the gridded spaces. The dipper

He used to fling translucence

Across the winter washed timbers

Sprang in an easy rhythm, sending

Sun sparing spray above the young

Carnations. I must have spent

Hours watching my Ojiisan spring

Upon the crystalline angles

Wondering, if he came crashing

Through betraying beams and brittle

Splashing of shards, what I would do.

But it was thirty years before he fell

And it was distant from the greenhouse roofs

Which I, myself, learned to walk upon

Coaxed by the firm tracing of his shoes.