The first typhoon of September
took away the warmth and soon
there’ll be nothing to remember.
Rain smooths away stone, which forgets
last month’s hot sun now it’s wet.
Having climbed scores of stairs
to the topmost rooms we pause
and take in what is left to see:
paintings, muskets, swords; a haiku
book written by a feudal lord
now gone with all his retinue,
written away. Just this remains:
outside there is only air
and the air is full of rain.