A samurai defends himself
when outnumbered,
by stepping back,
allowing his sword
to adjust,
clicking into the position of just—
like a painter, brush in hand,
amidst the onslaught of muses,
in motion with the gust,
when the wind murmurs
in the ears of dust.
The Art of War,
by mimicking flowers instead of claws and fangs,
by believing the sword is a paintbrush,
smudging on the blank canvas,
by letting branches burst into blooms
at the end of their symmetrical spurt,
by dipping his brush in blood.
And then—
gardens illuminate,
apple blossoms ignite,
red roses bloom.
