Epilogue: Dry Leaves

The new imperial garden was three years in the making. When at last the work was done, the emperor invited the whole court to come and admire it.

The guests walked the paths and were generous with their praise. But the emperor wanted the opinion of one man — an old garden master held to be unrivaled in that art. When the emperor turned to him, everyone present turned as well, and a silence fell.

The master said:

“Strange. I do not see a single dry leaf. How can there be life where there is no death? With no dry leaves here, the garden is dead. It must have been swept very carefully this morning. Have some dry leaves brought.”

The leaves were brought and scattered along the paths. The wind, which all morning had found nothing in that garden to stir, caught them and turned them along the ground, and the small dry sound of them ran through the whole still place — and the garden was alive.

“Now it is right,” said the master. “Your garden is beautiful, but there was too much of your work in it. You have made everything here. What was left was to let in the one thing no gardener can make.”