It falls like a ripe pear into the storm
with a single clinging leaf.
How faithful—it quits its branch—
reckless—it chokes in the heat.
It falls like a pear, more askew
than the wind. How faithful—
Look back: it thundered beautifully,
bloomed, scattered—into ashes.
The storm burned our country.
Fledgling, will you know your nest?
O my quivering goldfinch, my leaf,
why do you flutter against my shy silk?
Do not fear, my single clingng song.
What should we strive for?
O indivisible trembling—you don’t get
that deadly phrase “stay put.”