September Dawn

Torayoshi looked at his second daughter, 

Radiant infant, with joy, although he said, 

As Japanese men are supposed to say, that 

            He was frustrated 

At not yet having a son. Still, there was dawn 

About her face, as though she promised something 

To her father, something far in time. Her name 

            Became Asako. 

He raised her like he raised his flowers, gently, 

But knowing how to coax, from stem to blossom, 

Both beauty and strength, knowing when to water 

            And when to shelter. 

He raised her as the sun raises a fall day 

With the mystery of harvest in shadows 

Growing longer. He cared for her soft brilliance 

            Shining through winter. 

In her spring he cultivated the blooming 

Of her heart, full of gladness and dimpled cheeks. 

She knew his affection, not by his touch, but eyes 

            Stern and approving, 

Even as war everywhere ascended. She had 

His strength and pride for support, even as she was 

Torn from ivy, rose and eucalyptus trees, and 

            Sent to a desert. 

Her summer brought a man not unlike her father, 

A farmer, a man who planted life to feed 

Life, a man of family. Five seedlings 

            Sprang, the first a son. 

September is an early harvest, labor 

Never being easy. She gave her children 

What her father gave her: eighty-four seasons 

            Raised like flowers. 

Late September, the first son had two daughters, 

So what passed from father to daughter to son 

And now passes to daughters is knowledge of life

            Shining like the dawn.