TAO MAN

  

He stands

Within a forest scene

That bursts

With futile energy,

Which flourishes

And yet must die.

 

His triumph

Is a Poetry

Without a rhythm

Or a rhyme:

His body

Like a withered tree,

His mind

Like slaked lime.

 

I wander

Irresolutely,

Against the winds

Opposing me,

Yet wonder why

I cannot burn my seeds

And stand,

My branches breaking off,

While wind becomes

My winding sheet—

My sepulcher,

The earth and sky.

 

His Vision

Lacks the artistry

I strive to rein

With word-strung lines:

My vision fails,

While his remains

Within the depths

I cannot plumb,

Or mine:

His body

Like a withered tree,

His mind

Like slaked lime.