The willows in the winter wind,

green-yellow octopi or as the tails

of cartoon comets:
such is their movement

without the labourers

who with long poles
coax the last recalcitrant

tawny leaves from branches

which sag without despair. 
That was

earlier.
I speak now of a rising nation

resurgent,

of the contested ground
searching not

for the first time

without its borders.
Is it by a revolution of

tentacles or that

spectacular night-lit trail
they will arrive

or are arriving?
There are no sentries

upon the walls,

only tourists biking
atop the enclosed bricks

of Xian and the

Great Wall spreads
its webbed and callused

feet upon the world…
So in winter the willows

blow back upon themselves

and over
the Fourth Ring Road

flying above SUVs that are

death and may be still death.
Surely they are

not honourable.
I will move as the willows move

rooted here, the green and yellow

octopi if not the comet’s trailing
and may likewise arrive
and appear spectacular.