the fragrant hills
south of the summer palace
boast a forest
that burns brilliant
red in the fall.

the color expresses joy
and wards off evil, so
people choke the highways with
taxis and cars and then they fill
the streets, a surging mass of tradition,
pilgrims for luck.

as we move briskly up the mountain,
packed shoulder to shoulder,
marching up stairs spaced
exactly nine inches apart
(representing eternity),
i wonder why these people
have come.

they stare at the black hair
in front of them and they do not
look
to the sides
to the trees and
only a rare few take
the worn side paths through the
flames they came to see.

it is as though ascension alone
is the peace
they came for.