The Garden of Possibilities

My quietness has a garden inside it:
its walls are dragons from Guandong.
A granite dog guards the steps.
He holds a ball of chi, has a dragon in him.

My riotousness has a pavilion in it:
its golden roof flashes back the sun,
slowly sets fire to the grove of bamboo,
pine and flowering plum.

My tenderness has a spirit in it
transformed into a dancing rock
near which a  moongate opens
displaying waterfall and lake.

My slipperiness is an orange carp
slipping through weeds and lithe chambers,
surfacing wherever the lotus’s
clasped petals loosen and fall open.