A fluttering in the tree
And a drop of last night’s rain
Circles my ear
So long ago my first love!
She tightens her flowered kerchief.
At her side a white-haired man carries their books.
— Everywhere the scent of burning leaves.
Bury me in an unmarked grave,
In a field at the edge of the forest.
— In time our continent becomes an island.
Every waking hour I used to fill the air with words.
Now I hesitate to break the silence.
— The geese overhead honk at the moon, then diminish in the dusk.
A sprig of lilac, jostled:
A puff of perfume
— One of your visits.
Lovers on the wooden bridge,
She coy and alluring,
He tall and unsuspecting.
At rest for a moment
A dragonfly ponders
Before mating in the air.
In the streambed below
The water wears away a speckled stone.
Birds riding their reflections,
Others bathing in shadow:
Is this not the nature of existence?
I choose an unmarked grave.
For you: ashes mixed with your native soil.
— On the stone wall behind the sycamores,
Mottled shadows flicker.
A blood-red host sinks
Into its tabernacle on an island offshore,
Dragging its train of purple.
— The mountains and I are speechless.
Empty cup, cooling teapot,
Reed mat unstained
— How black the spaces between the stars!
Bamboo forest, jade light,
Slender leaves brush the moon.
For a moment the scent of pine resin:
Home distant a thousand li,
My wife feeding the kitchen fire.
She leans on the rail of the well
And sings to a cricket
About the boy who guided her hand
On the kite string
In the pail: black eyes, white hair.
Tendrils climb the withered bamboo.
Purple blooms on the yellow stalks.
— If only I could love again. |
