Slanting light casts onto a stucco wall the shadows of upwardly zigzagging plum branches. I can see the thinning of branches to the very twig. I have to sift what you say, what she thinks, what he believes is genetic strength, what they agree is inevitable. I have to sift this quirky and lashing stillness of form to see myself, even as I see laid out on a table for Death an assortment of pomegranates and gourds. And what if Death eats a few pomegranate seeds? Does it insure a few years of pungent spring? I see one gourd, yellow from midsection to top and zucchini-green lower down, but already the big orange gourd is gnawed black. I have no idea why the one survives the killing nights. I have to sift what you said, what I felt, what you hoped, what I knew. I have to sift death as the stark light sifts the branches of the plum.
Arthur Sze - 1950-
At the Equinox
The tide ebbs and reveals orange and purple sea stars. I have no theory of radiance, but after rain evaporates off pine needles, the needles glisten. In the courtyard, we spot the rising shell of a moon, and, at the equinox, bathe in its gleam. Using all the tides of starlight, we find vicissitude is our charm. On the mud flats off Homer, I catch the tremor when waves start to slide back in; and, from Roanoke, you carry the leafing jade smoke of willows. Looping out into the world, we thread and return. The lapping waves cover an expanse of mussels clustered on rocks; and, giving shape to what is unspoken, forsythia buds and blooms in our arms.