I
Staring at the charred remains, I grieve.  Trellis and stone blackened by fire,
the scorpion statue that sat in the pomegranate tree.  I check the coming tantrum,
reminding myself yet again that life is not fair,
life is never fair.

II
The pomegranate, sole survivor,
Proudly stands in the remains.
A gift of his parents
and responsible for tears
in the children’s clothes.
The garden is the only living loss;
the ruination of the scorpion has raised our ire.

It used to sparkle gaily in the sunlight,
perched in the pomegranate’s branches.
The children loved to look at it when sad.
When the sun shone on it, glimmers casted
about the garden.


III
Reminders  of what had been
stare blindly
back.  The balmy
summers under
the scorpion’s
gaze, roasting
marshmallows
in the fire
as the breeze
blew scents of
the pomegranate
toward us.  The
children laughing
and the chimes
softly tinkling.  
Memories bring
tears to my eyes
as I remember
those fair evenings
in contrast to the desolation before me.

IV
Plans are to take the children
after the burial and tears
to replace the scorpion
so the pomegranate doesn’t look so bare.
Taking back what was stolen.

V
The embers of that fire still smolders
in my heart.  The arsonists
who seared Dragon Hall,
attempted the pomegranate,
receive my deepest wrath.

VI
Under the scorpion’s gaze again, the children
play about the garden.  Set to right once more,
the garden has taken on a new light.
The same and different, mingling two opposing
views and melting them into one.