Dear Craftsman,

I could not tell the real
leaves from the leaves
of jade you made me,
such was their superior
craftsmanship.
Like real leaves,
they never woke me
with their light.
Like real leaves
they looked plucked,
fallen, torn from
a living tree.
Like real leaves,
their colors changed
with actual time.
There was no state
to fund your sublime
secret and one night
too late I’d find you
in your shop, your city
of green, alone
with the luminous stones,
alone in a forest
waiting to come to leaf.
Jade or mulberry?
Mulberry or jade?
What, if not truth,
not gold, not grief,
brought you to this?

Jennifer Tseng