May 7 – Traci Lords gets the 72 Nipponese microseasons

After a long winter, the east wind melts the ice.
I emerge from our hut to gaze at the mountains in front of me. I inhale the crisp air as I take it all in. Miyagase is lovely this time of year.
The sun’s rays warm my waking body, and before I have a chance to yawn, I am greeted by the bush warblers, their lush melodies proud to announce that it has all begun again.
There is work to be done, certainly, but not before I remind myself what it’s for. A long walk is demanded by my spirit, and I see no reason to deny its wish. The lake has opened up, and the fish can once again swim freely, preparing for their long journey south to reaffirm their proliferation. I stand still by the water’s edge, when suddenly and perceptibly, the rain falls and my attention turns to the petrichor rising from the soil.
The remaining droplets soften and, lingering in my surroundings, enough to blur my gaze momentarily, they become a faint mist.
Its presence incentivizes the developing grass and the budding trees, but it’s the sun’s rays that finally coax the greenery from its protective shells.
I’ve been here before and I will be back.
Joining the plants as vernal pioneers are the ground insects, who surface as adults after their requisite dormancy.
They walk and climb, exploring their new world, and the luckiest few will get to see the first peach blossom from its attached limb. I want to coax the fruit to its potential so I can share it with those close to me, but it’s time, not agitation, that provides the flavour.
Butterflies leave behind their past lives as caterpillars. Finally they reach the maturity they need to find themselves as fully integrated elements in the ecological community.
The hungry sparrows leave them alone and will search for other bugs to gain sustenance as they build their new homes, high in the trees.
These birds hide amongst the fructifying cherry blossoms, with rare privacy being a luxury they do not take for granted.
I gaze above where the sky is clear, but a thunderous rumbling in the distance indicates it won’t last forever. It never does.
My legs grow tired, but there’s no place to turn around without causing a disturbance. I move on, determined to take it all in.
As a large flock of swallows encounters a family of geese heading in the opposite direction, they’re all forced to acknowledge that a shared goal does not mean they will flow together.
Colourful arcs render an intense rainbow that covers the landscape, inviting all those who do not rely solely on the sense of touch to engage in wonder.
The reeds push up through the final frost, shielding the soil below, which allows the rice seedlings to secure their own stretch nearby.
Everything is as it should be. I remain a part of the whole, integral and unnecessary at once, a role I am pleased to accept.
Burgeoning peonies have chosen now to bloom in order to fully hear to the frogs, who declare themselves with each bound.
Their vibrating croaks bring the worms to the surface as well, curious of the sound but mindful not to approach too closely.
The essential bamboo, standing straight and confident in its existence, laughs at the indecision it sees in its midst.
I laugh without prompting or purpose.
A generous mulberry bush sacrifices its leaves to the ravenous silkworms. They are slowly eroded away as the safflowers effloresce.
Fortunately, the ripened wheat can be plucked and distributed to those waiting patiently for this time. As long as it is ready to feed us all, I too must ready for the harvest in my own way.
Hatching praying mantises strike fear in the illuminated fireflies, who rose from the dying grass.
Medicine suffers as the self-heal lies torpid for another orbit, but the irises have taken their place to remind us of the unending cycle.
The crow-dipper rages against tepid gusts of air, even as the lotus pays no mind.
I refrain from making adjustments of my own to aid in the survival of certain plants. They must do it themselves or be replaced by those who can.
The environment will never be mine, or theirs, but will only be.
A young hawk soars overhead. The flight’s destination is unknown even to the pilot, and she’s in no rush either way.
The paulownia readies itself for ancestry, as I prepare for those that came before me.
Oh, the humidity has returned, but it is mitigated by a downpour, the rain blowing sideways, guided by a cool breeze.
The air has grown dense with fog, but through the haze comes the anthem of the cicadas.
I auscultate their cries as the unique becomes familiar.
Cotton enters the world as the heat leaves us again.
Following closely behind, rice has done its duty and is picked as the dew glistens around the paddies.
The swallows refuse the song of the wagtails and they disappear.
No more thunder will pound tonight. I turn back through a path forged long ago for this occasion.
An insect scout is sent above to review the scene. He doesn’t trust the silence and scurries back down, where they all stay, even as the farmers drain their fields.
At last, the horizon stays still as wild geese grow larger, met by the greeting chrysanthemums.
The chirp of the crickets gives away their position, but they are not concerned.
Preparations must be made as the first frost is upon on.
As expected, rain falls lightly and gives the maple leaves and ivy a yellow shine that only the sun can best.
The prospering camellias pay no attention to the freezing land. They’re eager to emerge, and to do so alongside the daffodils.
While the rainbows hide, I seek shelter, from the gusts prying leaves from their twigs to the earth below.
A chill sets in, and the yellowing citrus leaves accept what they’ve always known. I remind myself what is waiting for me.
Sleuths of bears take to secured dens for hibernation, leaving their salmon prey free to gather and swim upstream unimpeded.
The resting self-heal, eager to remedy, germinates anew.
Deer leave their heavy antlers behind, relying on cunning and speed for defense.
Falling snow blankets the ground, but sprouts of wheat poke through, curiosity getting the better of them.
Recurrent thawing springs allow the parsley to flourish.
Pheasants call to those who will listen, including the budding butterburs.
Fragments of ice make a final stand as the streams ready to flow.
Hens lay their first eggs. It is time to feed.
As the east wind melts the ice, I return home.