Mishigami

Truthfully, my countrymen 

are not my fellow countrymen, 

but the conifers and the isles. 

The birds and their birdsongs. 

The elk and their antler crowns; 

woods like a township of sundials. 

The dogs who seize the day — 

glancing eyes to either side, 

and their effortless smiles. 

The red leaves, the white snow, 

and the blue sky so far below 

the moon in all its afterglow. 

What I seek is not fortune, 

but only fortitude.  

That underneath  

the throes of night, 

I’m forgiven my ineptitude. 

That beneath the noon of day, 

the air refrains from burning hotter. 

What I thirst for is not wealth, 

but a homestead, flowerbeds, 

and peninsulas of freshwater. 

In yearning for paradise — 

not a land of milk and honey, 

but a land of wheat and sun; 

Faraway from the towers, 

and the looming megaton — 

I’d look about me. That the 

wind unfurls into great storms, 

but not atop my humble farm. 

Beside myself,  

to tend the earth, 

lest the Earth  

would do me harm. 

As oceans rise,  

and deserts blow; 

as soil dies,  

and the fires glow, 

I’d hear the war foil — 

But only in the distance, 

and never a step closer, 

from the acres that I toil. 

I’d die of my years, 

and not my fears — 

No copper rounds, 

no cold dead hands. 

Not on an empty belly, 

but on a countryside. 

Faraway, fellow countrymen,  

but evergreens and fireflies. 

B.J. Koenig

is a novice writer who studies bioinformatics at Harvard. His fondest accomplishments live between himself and his friends.