My baby, sleeping like that,
hands raised as if cheering.
But of course! Banzai! Banzai to all who are born!


                                    There is a music to crying.
                                    Again today I carry a newborn baby
                                    like a guitar.


Visiting Ginza at the year’s end,
the streets are full of people
who were once babies.


                                    Living is reaching out with one’s hands.
                                    The fingers of an infant
                                    close upon the nose of Pooh Bear.


A single tangerine
overflows with so many words:
Peel. Seeds. Sweet. Juice. Good smell.


                                    A rainy afternoon,
                                    Repeating endlessly the call and response
                                    “Mama.” “Yes?” “Mama.” “Yes.”


These are the same things my mother did for me,
changing my nappies, nursing me at her breast
and rocking me to sleep.


                                    Today a voice has joined his smile,
                                    like a black and white film
                                    changing to colour.


Rocking, but not moving forward.
Childrearing is this rocking horse-time
that you have given me.