THIS WITHERING BODY

What should I do

with this withering body?

Not in my hands,

neither the answer nor the right to decide.

Open and quiet, in autumn breeze

how can the palm not tremble?

Sunlight,

these docile fallen leaves.

I worry at this dusty world,

indebted to a mother’s warmth—

humbler than flame, steadier than love—

cradling this withering body.

Wherever you run, houses

lock you in four walls.

Glance at the sky:

that tint’s not up to you.

The road to the temple,

the road home.

What figure should I use

for my own withering flesh?

A water bead, a leaf,

a cloud in bloom?

Maybe a cord of dry firewood

sunset won’t ignite,

but with one sharp look

could burn

to ash, to dust

rising past the treetops.