O whirling sword

O whirling sword,
the arc you cut 
stirs the water's surface
and bisects words --
they fall like plum blossoms
in March winds.

As sword cuts air, i cut
lines in stresses
three and two; they switch
as blade o'er hilt
pivot to face my gaze,
my hand's measure.

Thesis, antithesis, synthesis;
as oil of vitriol
cuts and joins, my words --
sword and arrow,
light through rain -- cut
and join again.

(on Atu VI and XIV)