Little green caterpillars
weave raincoats of straw.
They hang silent on pomegranate branches,
they struggle,
they split,
they flutter,
powdered wings trembling into thin air
yet the flight ends
as all wings must.
I row across a lake of ice,
oh little broken boat of mine.
My oars shatter like jade,
each stroke breaking,
breaking against what will never yield.
Snowy mountain peaks shine,
but their cold remains unbroken,
a beauty I cannot reach or touch.
Rain droplets fall,
urging the thirsty soil awake.
Flowers burst in their thousands,
a majestic riot of color
no sooner here,
already fading.
Even bamboo shoots that break the wall
are only reaching
toward another silence.
The afternoon sun presses its furnace,
warm rays against my back,
a fleeting heat,
a drowsy lie.
Storms pass the eaves,
dark clouds bent and bitter,
the smell of renewal lingering in the breeze,
raging against the same north wind
that has never lost a battle.
And I see it, all in this moment:
Life quickens,
life blossoms,
life flames,
only to fall back
into stillness.
All of it beautiful,
all of it vain,
in a single, fleeting moment
those little green Caterpillars in Pomegranate Ashes