It is sorry. I have not written.
See, we have already been
rain season in Japan, so we feel
gloomy for forty days.
Our laundries don't dry well.

I'm very glad you will be teacher.
I could understand soon
where is Louisiana from the thanks
of your map. Climate must be quite
different from your other home.
You will be busy for your move.
Then you asked me some questions
in your last letter. Of course,
I'll tell you everything.

We are five sisters
whose ages are two apart from each other.
My grandfather liked to plant plum trees
in the back yard. You know,
our chestnut tree was big and high,
so much it needed six men
to hold it hand to hand. So one day
in autumn many acquaintances came.
It was the third sister's wedding,
and chestnuts were struck down,
down with a long pole.

In June we covered grape bunches
with paper bags. Mosquitoes couldn't bite,
suck out its juices. We children celebrated,
cut the bottom that was soft with rain.
I slipped, fell down the stream. We also
have a high closet, and I jumped down
from the double column: “Here I go!”

There is a volcano across the sea.
I took a shower last week and a bath,
all open, the air, the green garden.
I wore the hotel's yukata. Do you know it?
There was an eruption. We had lunch.
I climbed the highest tree, sat at the top,
looked around and it was my childhood:
I was born at the foot of Mount Fuji.
We Japanese did not have TV. Children played,
but with dolls, dibo, stilts, kites, tops.
Todays they play video, go to cram school.
I feel they are pity. But we are tomboys,
even now. I become sleepy.

Good bye. Next time I'll tell
about my other story. Ethan,
take a bath with a sunrise from the sea.
I'm so pleasure if you write me
a mountain, from your childhood,
from the highest point with smoke
coming out every day.

More by Ethan Gilsdorf:

Winter poetry - "In the Snow"

Overcoat, Metro pass, five choice nouns for the task at hand... Ethan Gilsdorf arms himself with words

A good look at America from the Window Seat