CHINOISERIE III

After 77 years, who’s not a pitiful sight?

Only the blackbirds know my thoughts,

                                                                      a couple of spots

In the cattails and pond reeds.

The mountains stretch away, the cloud mountains and the green mountains.

Such an old song, such old words

As they drift across the creek.

                                                    Late night lingers, water murmurs.

I’ve listened to wind-spool all my life.

And now this,

        the slow grind-down of things, the birds settling down for the night.