The morning after
the festival,
a sigh stole through the alcove
where the doll altar
stood.

In the pavilion, the tiny lord
bowed his head, a fist
curled at his side,
a hand upon his lady's shoulder.

She dried
her eyes
with a trailing sleeve, her mouth
a red “oh!”, her fan
concealed
in the folds of her kimono.

The ladies-in-waiting
packed
away the saké trays;
the forelocked minstrels
ceased drumming and
fluting.

The mandarin trees
shed their quartz blooms;
the
porcelain dogs
hid behind the palanquin.

Ears cocked to the
door,
they waited for the girl, the caskets
and the mothballs.

*
Hina Matsuri, the Japanese Doll Festival