Metal Dragon, Water Horse


I

In days so dark, with the promise
of no ending.
Accepting what you cannot change.
Finding small pleasure in
the oriole in the mulberry tree
a scarlet tanager bathing in the creek
an indigo bunting flashes across the path
the glint of goldfinch among the purple of thistles
a great blue heron fishing a dozen feet from me
as I drink the day's first coffee.
I have seen all these, and say it is
enough for one lifetime.
A kind of peace in learning to be still,
teaching the soul to desire no more
than it has. Will have.
And to be nevertheless glad.
Distaff empty, spindle full and slowing,
the wheel pulling to quiet.
Garden at rest, waiting.
What you cannot see
What you can no longer hope
A baby at the breast,
my own. Then grown,
and that child's child,
bright as the flick of sun on creekwater
I have loved and been loved, and well.
I have no argument with god.
All pain has been bearable,
and survived.
The pleasure of learning to know what is possible,
and doing that with joy.
No path has been so steep it
could not be climbed.
Remembering always to say thank you
to the Lord of the Dance.
The drowsy Dragon, like the dog, turns thrice
to settle into sleep.


II

Yet, it seems that even winter ends.
A murmur in the dream. A small plash.
And one eye opens.
Expecting what?
Nothing. Nothing. It is done.
A voice. Hello.


III

Will the glory of the snow bloom?
Planted late in a warm winter. And the
fritillaries?
The forgetmenots reseed, reliably,
even in an abandoned garden. Blue lace.
No bleeding hearts although I love them
the iris from my mother's garden,
but the roses did not survive.


IV

No. I was not prepared. Could never have
imagined, dreamed it.
Had I, it would have been something sweet
and lavender. Suitable. Serene. Some
thing to touch the hearts of the young ones:
holding hands on a park bench. Seemly.
Not this, this heart all gladdened out of season.
All hobbledehoy, all gay, all sunlight and thunder.
Beyond all edges, beyond belief, no white dove
perched on a finger: an eagle. Raptor.
Soul soars and circles,
out of sight, nor hears any voice of reason.
Sightless, blind and deaf with joy,
without voice for this, stumbling
without guidance. No teacher.
Yet too, a peace so deep and fine, spun silk
against the naked skin at midnight, cool.
And warmth, not ember,
wildfire running against the wind, devouring.
And an angel, standing in the corner,
laughing.
But not surprised.


~~ Julie Li