My Japanese maples
were revived,
a girl’s chalk heart
was dissolved in a courtyard,
a hero was given a chance
to cry in secret,
a harried nurse’s coffee
was diluted,
the air around the city
was purged,
storefront neon
was splashed onto a shiny street,
one fire was doused
while another was spared,
a young man
was inspired to dance,
spectres of steam
were raised like questions,
a flower
was filled like a teacup,
leaned over
to empty itself,
and stood up again
to be refilled;
and I was moved
like the canterbury bell
to bow and pray
for the nurse and the hero,
for the crimson in the leaves
that glow in sunlight,
for the cha cha in the boy
and the art in the girl,
for every soul haunted
by old or current ghosts,
for good flames
and clean air,
and for the immigrant
who owns the mini-mart
whose window spilled color
on the nurse’s feet
as she walked home alone
with her cup.
