SakuLA

.Reading time 3 minutes.

transplanted in LA
i discover delicate sakura and tall palm trees
blossoming together

It is now sakura season in Kyoto, Japan. And unexpectedly, to me, sakura are blossoming at the same time here, far away across the Pacific Ocean in Los Angeles, where the tall palm trees are emblematic. Am I right to say that sakura will be the last thing to come to mind when thinking of LA? This city conjures three things: Hollywood, beaches, and palm tree lined boulevards. But quietly, sakura are here too, pink and light in this sprawling City of Angels.

When writing Japanese words in romaji, the Roman alphabet, we use the letter R to spell words that include the syllables: ra-ri-ru-re-ro (らりるれろ). For example, cherry blossom or sakura. But the sound is not a straight R-sound, like rah, ree, roo, reh, roe. It’s closer to something of an LR-sound, like lrah, lree, lroo, lreh, lroe… So it would be better to write sakulra, but then it would be mispronounced as sa-kul-ra. So maybe it is actually better to write sakula, and specifically for cherry blossoms in LA, sakuLA! Saku means to blossom. So sakula or sakuLA could have a double meaning: LA cherry blossom, or blossom LA—a unique variety of sakura only to be found in LA!

We are transplanted… in flowers, as peoples and languages, as ever changing and creative expressions of culture brought together by chance or by fate. Perhaps by love. It is something beautiful in the soil and it is something beautiful in the sky. SakuLA and palm trees blossoming together. Holding hands, we dance in the wind, pink and light.

Below is a flower-photo montage created by my phone, magically just on the day I started writing on the theme of being transplanted in LA and blossoming like sakura/sakuLA together with the LA-local palm tree. I did not choose any of the photos nor their sequence, yet the last photo is the same as the featured one above, which I had already selected earlier. Maybe it’s accidental coincidence. Or maybe it’s all the work of an angel—here in LA, in this sprawling city of angels.

flower deep

.Reading time less than 1 minute.

i am flower deep
in this love
tipsy-sweet and delicate-pink
dancing
warm sunlight and sparkles bright……
and deep into the night
dreaming you & me
together
all throughout these grassy-green fields of forever

enchanted

.Reading time 1 minute.

in this garden
the deep soil where i blossom
is your love
i am its flower—wild and pink
and i dance in the warm sunshine
of you

this ancient garden is born anew
and blushes like the very first light that spills
into day
tumbling out
shy
from the covers of an unknown and eternal night

this night where we walk
all along
our long and winding path without, seemingly, an end
hand in hand together one
step after another, and
into the crystal clear waters sparking with light

where, in this darkness
and here underneath all these stars
is our story, steeped and older than time
and our heart,
a seashore swelling and crashing with waves
here, where we are singing and where we are weaving
the darkness into light
the darkness into love
the darkness into these roses growing—wild and pink
right here in this garden
where we
are
where we are one, and where
we are enchanted.

give light

.Reading time less than 1 minute.

Give light and people will find the way. ~ Ella Baker

now, more than ever
here in this darkness without
horizon
i need your light
your shine
your beautiful illumination

our world is in flames and our dream today is dying
like embers, falling from the sky
and like ash
scattered about in a reckless wind ravenous for more
and more and more but without
meaning

so more than ever now
i need
you
i need your kindness, compassion, empathy, your heart
and, your unconditional
love

your love
brighter than a billion stars
gives light
and life, and yes together we can
you and me
rise and grow anew the sacred garden
wild and free

Written for Black History Month, 2025. Inspiration from Ella Baker, Martin Luther King Jr., Barack Obama, and Maya Angelou. May peace prevail.


nothing is known

.Reading time 5 minutes.

nothing is known
not the who or why or how
just someone
with their long story
asleep on the edge of a concrete driveway and burrowed beneath a blanket
shopping bag for pillow

nothing’s known
but in my heart, i ache,
and so i ask:

um, hi, are you ok? excuse me… sorry to bother you but…
it’s a bit dangerous here,
i say
i pause, nervously, but persistently
and in the dim light a hand uncovers two eyes peering directly into mine

uh, you know cars coming out of the parking garage might not see you here and they might accidentally hit you or run over your foot,
i sputter awkwardly
glancing at the large foot i now see sticking out from under the blanket
Can you move?
There’s another spot just over there,
i urge,
and i think it’d be safer…

nothing is known,
but i hear an elegant voice emerge from the shadow:
Maybe in a few minutes, thanks, but I’m kind of tired right now…
says he,
somehow in the tone of an amused smile.
But persistently I press on:
What if tomorrow i were to hear in the news something about a man who was run over in the driveway—and i could have prevented it—so how would i feel then?
a pause passes
“I won’t make the news,” he forecasts wryly.

um… a little more determined this time…
is there something i can help you with, something you need?
i implore.
Well, pause, I do accept cash donations.
With the exception of an iPhone16 i am empty handed on this ten minute work-break walk around the block.
I’m sorry, i say awkwardly and self-consciously, I don’t have anything right now…
“I was just joking,” came his swift reply, seemingly more for my sake than for his.

I let him know that we have some extra dinners and that i’ll bring him one and tell him that i’ll be back in a few minutes and i ask him to wait and to be careful…
and then i return with a boxed take-out dinner in a plastic bag, napkins and sauces, and chopsticks included.
What if he doesn’t eat with chopsticks, i wonder.
i mean
nowadays most Americans (assuming he’s American; his voice has slight British undercurrents, at least to my ears) know how to eat with chopsticks and we are in LA after all.

Placing the bag down carefully near him, still burrowed under the blanket, i pause.
um, here you go… i’m sorry there’s chopsticks… we have forks too…
He peers at me.
The shadows are steep and we cannot see one another well.
“Chopsticks are ok,” he says, patiently.

Look, there’s a place just over there that’s off the street and away from cars… I’ll help you carry your things…
i try again
but he doesn’t want to move
in a few minutes, a little later, he promises

But this time he extends his hand to me,
asking,
“What’s you name?”
I hold his hand.
Mi-chi-ru, my name is Michiru (uncommon, even in Japan).
Michiru, he says carefully, and a few times
still holding my hand.

nothing is known
not the who or why or how
but in my heart i feel the connection
and his desire to remember
my name…

Um, pause, I mean…
and this time i feel that it is him who is a little nervous…
Are you single or something? he asks. I mean, I look good in a suit and tie…

Peering into his eyes, i see a beautiful soul.
and i say:
The clothes don’t matter… i can see that you’re a handsome man…

But then i mumble something about how i’m not looking for a relationship and about having to get back to work but and that i’m here every day and i’ll keep my eyes out and, and… will he promise me to take care and to be safe and to move to that safer spot over there?

I promise, he says.
And we let go of one another’s hands.

Nothing is known. Not the who or why or how. Just him, just me, and just us.
Souls.
With a long story.

My heart, aches.





Children of Shimá

.Reading time 1 minute.

Now, more than ever.

Ever since I was little, I craved the guidance, mentorship, and leadership of women—of wise, old and beautiful women. As a little girl, I loved my grandmother’s hands. She would complain to me about her “ugly old-age spots,” but her wrinkled and spotted hands were to me, beautiful. They held mine warmly, with love and kindness. They gave me the world’s best chocolate-chip cookies, miniature shoes her mother had collected, and hugs.

And now, more than ever, I crave the kindness, wisdom, love and leadership—of women. I crave a world in which old women, with their soft, worn, and strong bodies of age are acknowledged for their beauty and for their power. I crave a world where grandmothers are government.

I am grateful to my mother, my grandmothers, and their mothers… to the many wise women teachers I’ve had… and to shimá (“my mother” in Navajo, implying both a personal and collective mother). The tremendous hardships they faced in life did not diminish their love and capacity to give, but deepened it. May I walk bravely in their footsteps…

now, more than ever.

I VOTE.

.Reading time less than 1 minute.

nothing is taken for granted
they say not tomorrow and not one more day in this life
but i say today
right now at this very moment and this time
nothing can be taken for granted
not even my own body
nor my voice
to speak, to sing, to incant, to whisper or shout, to scream in the dark
my own voice
to mutter and to murmur
to cast beautiful spells, and shadows in the twilight, and poetry
and to cast my vote
my one vote
irreplaceable
right now
invaluable
and
never taken for granted.

brimful

.Reading time less than 1 minute.

blushing wild roses
unfurl into dawn’s soft skies
brimful with pink love

This haiku came back to me, yesterday. And like a scent-sparked memory, I felt the soft petals unfurling against the light blue sky—again. May I too, greet yet another day dancing, without hesitation nor slight. Just brimful, in the light.

replicãre

.Reading time 1 minute.

What are you? I ask.
A black dragon, he declares.
And the light singing
into deep nights of winter.
This red rose—bitter and sweet.

(tanka 5-7-5-7-7)

Several years ago, I was inspired to write a sort of poetic retort to the question, “What are you?” In those awkward moments where you don’t quite know how to reply to a question and are left stumbling for words, you may find a window to unusual answers. My poem took the form of a Japanese tanka (5-7-5-7-7) in English:

What are you? They ask.
A pink flower, i declare.
And darkness dancing
into light waves of seashore.
Jaguar’s soft skin and heartbeat.

Recently I was inspired to flip the question and create a mirrored reply. The tanka at the top is the result. And you? What are you?

equinox

.Reading time less than 1 minute.

this autumn
i fall
like the leaves
into secluded shadows where light
sparkles and dances
alone
and underneath the deepening dark
earth
i fall
like the leaves
surrendering and shedding
this sweet body of my soul
all these scared and brittle memories
and i wait
like the leaves
for some distant spring when
my love
underneath a bold and gentle sun
takes my hands and dances together with me
out loud
i wait
and i fall
like the leaves
for an inevitable spring
falling all over for you
again