Lantern and Breeze

Lantern decided to show him. She closed her eyes for a moment, picturing the scene exactly as it was. The purpose of a poem, she believed, was to capture a single, perfect image, like a photograph made of words. You had to hold it completely still in your mind before you could share it.

“Okay, listen,” Lantern said calmly. “Let’s just focus on the picture. The feeling will follow.” She looked down the path, at the row of glowing paper shapes. They didn't move. They simply were. That was their magic. “How about this for a first line: Warm paper lanterns...”

She paused, letting the words hang in the quiet air. It was a good start. It painted the main subject. It had five syllables. Anyone hearing that line could picture it instantly. It was clear and calm, a small island of light in the growing darkness.

“...glow along the path,” she finished, imagining the rest of the poem. It would be about the stillness, about the way the light held back the night. It would be a poem about peace. She looked over at Breeze, expecting him to see the beauty in it. But he was just kicking at a pebble, looking impatient.

“But nothing is happening!” Breeze burst out. He zipped over to the cherry tree and gave the branch a little shake. The bamboo chimes knocked against each other, making a hollow, lonely sound. Clonk, clonk-clink. “A poem isn’t a painting that just sits there. It’s a feeling that runs through you! Like me!”

He took a deep breath and then puffed it out, a cool current of air that swirled through the garden. The lantern flames flickered inside their paper shells. The leaves on the cherry tree whispered. The wind chimes sang their hollow song again. “That’s the poem!” he declared. “The feeling of autumn arriving.”

“A poem is about what you can feel,” Breeze insisted. He tried his own first line, his voice full of energy. “Cool wind starts to blow... See? It has action! It has sound! You can feel it on your skin.” He spun in a little circle, making a few more leaves dance. For him, the garden wasn't a still picture. It was a collection of movements and sounds, and a poem had to capture that energy, or it wasn't alive at all.

“It needs a picture, or nobody knows what you’re talking about,” Lantern said, her quiet voice firm. “Your line could be happening anywhere. In a field, on a mountain. My line puts you right here.”

“And my line makes you feel like you’re here!” Breeze retorted, zipping past her ear with a soft whoosh. “Your lanterns just sit there until I come along and make their little lights dance!” He was right. As he passed, the flames inside the paper wavered, and the shadows on the ground wiggled and stretched.

Lantern watched the dancing shadows. A small smile touched her lips. “You’re right,” she admitted. “They are more interesting when you’re around.” She looked up at the cherry tree. In the fading light, the leaves were just dark shapes. But when Breeze rustled them, she could suddenly see each one distinctly as they shivered. “And I suppose you can’t see your leaves rustling unless my light is shining on them.”

Breeze stopped his zipping. He hovered near a lantern, watching its light and shadow play on the mossy ground. He hadn't thought of it that way. His movement needed her light to be seen. Her light needed his movement to feel alive. They weren't writing two different poems. They were trying to describe two parts of the very same moment.