No longer green, today the jade
spreads faded suppositions through
a future mewling extra cream
in streams that once knew lemonade.
One yes and then the nos rush in,
a dynasty bred just for height,
a kite with tails of docking line
as finest China coats the skin.
He seeks, he seeds, he smooths his way;
decay is dancing on his string,
a tincture bleeding salt and oil
to spoil the surface of the clay.
But wheels will turn, though weary feet
don't meet the ground the way they should
we stood where God was greener still
and willows bent beneath the heat.
The vase inverts, its soaked debris
is freed from sugared water walls
and crawls to reach the hollow stem
where lemons burst upon the tree.