I follow the heavens of a glowing eye,
that stares in at the nearer months of heat.
The sun rises through the wood,
and even in the husk of summer,
it is spring for an aching hour of early light,
that touches through the green.
But noon, oh noon, she is cruel to me,
there is the fire in the south,
high upon the sky,
a vermilion bird that wings over,
snatching us like winged beetles where we stand.
Only the close earth heralds the change of season,
or perhaps the breath of the wind.
Around trees curls the yellow dragon.
Wisps of red touch from his lips.
From the living west it will come,
the autumn to lift this weight.
The mountains will be touched with White Tiger,
and love will rise as lonely petals seek
that last comfort of the dying dew.
North I stare at barren mountain,
as black as tortoise shell.
Soon to be clad in other tones,
as fleet crows circle nigh.
It is the year of my yin,
waiting, waiting, for a touch
of other essence.