I am the transmigrating puritan
Working the resplendent fields in the aftermath of rain
Sniffing fresh humus mixed with the ooze
Of the waxy sap from severed roots
The clouds swim and pitch, rushing in their directions
Each leaf of the pear tree boasts its own exquisite veins
The phenomena of tree and sky and all else come together
In the lenses of droplets on the clipped fruiting branches
I am praying that those droplets will not fall
Until I have completed my circle around the tree
For after taking this little acacia flower
I will respectfully stoop to touch my lips to it
I must look the perfect villain
In my tattered coat and shirt with the turned-down collar
Casting furtive glances
Stiffening my shoulders as if up to no good
I think I will be forgiven
Nothing is dependable in a world of these phenomena
Nothing can be counted on
Yet this very lack of dependability
Comes out as this delicate dew
It dyes the little gnarled spindle tree
From red to the soft colour of moonlight
Into a magnificent embroidery
That's it, the acacia tree's dug out
I put down the tool, now content
Smiling magnanimously as I pass below the trees
As if on my way to meet a waiting lover
Yet, yet...though this is a burning desire
It has already turned into a watercoloured past