Magic Grass

A poem for my son on Walt Whitman's birthday

Near the family grave, Nakanoto-machi, Ishikawa, Japan.

Magic Grass

“Look at the magic
grass!” my son sings
without turning away

from the rice field. 
“We’re here to visit
the family grave,” I say.

“What are you doing?”
“I’m singing Magic grass!
Magic grass! Magic grass!

over and over, 
and walking 
this straight line.”

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