His House

His life is all bamboo and Far-Eastern spices,
Dragon reds and golds melted together;
His lips are the fires of dawn in harsh winters.
His heart is deep and rain-filled to no limit.
His house is all restless and green.

His secret stirred through his emptiness,
The fog lifting from the ground, lifeless;
His eyes dimming dull and lackluster.
His mind is all torrents and wide open spaces,
His house is all thoughts and routines.

And the year rang in, the rabbit to dragon,
The gold that was his skin, and his twilight returned;
The water filled his heart like a yearning.
His eyes are rafts with night-lighting lanterns,
His house is all stardust and gleams.

He sees violently in the back of his mind,
The cry of one past to one present, and what's gone,
And the places he cannot see are white spaces.
His smell is of growing and just-rained earth.
His house is dark spices and dreams.