A rose in 3 poems

A rose I immediately enjoy is a rare creature indeed, and this one conjures the fierce tenderness of Yosano Akiko's verse. I don't know how this extraordinary poet would feel about this fragrance, but I am channeling her spirit for these impressions.

Ancient wood smoke drifts between scattered fog. Morning bell echoes— I taste metal on my tongue, spring's sharp, necessary cut.

Green leaf floating in the temple's shallow puddle reflects my true face. A mantis waves its thin arms in mock benediction.

Thorn-pricked finger traces rose oil, crimson poems on sleep-soft limbs, bitter sutras cannot wash this sweetness from memory.