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The college sophomore was a bundle of surprises.
But his feisty prickliness toward Dad had spread into
A long-run saga, predictable as nothing else
In multi-vectored life transition.
He launched critiques in streams,
Disparaging his fathers smallest slight or slightest slip,
En route, unwittingly, toward ever greater independence.
Yet upon his one free summer
day, in Tokyo,
He rushed by train and bus to climb Mt. Fuji,
Sacred soaring mountain mostly swathed in clouds and rain or
snow.
Though pressed for time, he paused to buy a fine-hewn Fuji walking
stick,
And stopped again at every mountain hut
To have the stick inscribed as testament of passage.
A three-hour race attained
the summit,
Where he shivered in the rain-swept cold
And peered through mists opaque
And gasped for lack of air.
Racing down, he barely
caught the last train back to Tokyo,
Where his homeward flight awaited him at dawn.
Denied his on-board access with his stick in hand,
He checked it most reluctantly, and said hed pummel personnel
If ever stick were broken on the way.
Arriving home with Fuji
keepsake still intact,
In time to celebrate his fathers birthday,
The youngster gave the staff he knew
The dad would love and treasure dearly
As a gift of boundless sacrifice.
The Japanese inscriptions
burnt upon the stick
Identified each mountain hut,
The youth, that bundle of surprises,
Pointed out with seriousness and pride.
But Dad knew better:
Every one of them meant LOVE. |