In the parks, the old men

rake the stones in the gardens

around the nodding koi ponds

becoming haiku in the still water,

hiding under green canopy shade

of wide leafed water lilies, sedate

in suspension, concentric circles

in water, in the raked stones,

parallel neatness that seemed

to echo his thought patterns,

as he circled the core of his

thoughts, of his being,

his mind drifting back to

the compounds in the jungle,

bamboo stakes and fences,

military order,

instilling Bushido thinking

into the white faces of weak

men who allowed themselves

to be prisoners, blood red but

bloodless, these allied soldiers

who grinned and gave

smart answers from skin and

bone angularity, even when

coming out of ten days in the

hot steaming confinement in

cages for silly mindless birds

of men. Laconic he later learned

helped to congeal blood, harden

skin, will. These were missing

pieces in the garden of his mind,

his questions of propriety, and

vague memories that somehow

were connected and disconnected.

He envied the old men who sat

and meditated in the deep shade

of the city gardens, asked himself

questions of dissembling, the neat

starched, folded garments sliding

from the Geisha girl, a willingness

and submission about which his

thoughts frightened him, threatened

his probity, asked him to pick up

the pieces of the jigsaw that had

spilled itself on the table before

him, once more looking for

the patterns, missing pieces, this way

and that, upturned, a disorientation

of well known patterns. Neat girls

of the sisterhood already united in

their downcast smiles, their stuttering

steps. Vacuous life between

innumerable tea ceremonies where

somehow all of the pieces were in place.