Little Green Caterpillars

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