Amaterasu: Japanese Goddess who Hides in a Cave While Crops Die until Her People Hold up a Mirror, and She Rejuvenates at the Sight of Herself by Robin Scofield When the sun’s rays decline, low through the kitchen window, I close the blinds of the cave, but I keep my mirror in the closet. The cape of blue stars holds roses in winter. The hands of Juan Diego open it, and the Virgen’s eyeslashes cast up like the sun’s rays. The cave she looks for is filled with sprigs of new birth, for in all dark things we have the beginning of nothing because nothing can be forgotten or begotten without the darkness plus the one band of light that goes through the mirror to light on the spirals that people carve in order to calculate the rate at which time returns to the dark unforgetting, the rebegotten. In these times of cloud and rain, shadows lift, and that one beam of light comes in through the kitchen window. Low as the declining rays, my mood dwindles into the ghosts who have been unborn till now, midnight of the year when a mirror full of light rises at the cave entrance, and nothing can be forgotten because it is a cape full of roses, this darkness, the sun’s decline, hidden in a cave, something else again.