“REMEMBER ME WHEN THE CANDLELIGHT IS GLEAMING”

The clouds over Mt. Henry are

                                                  as fine as the clouds over Taishan,

Or those over Mt. Pisa.

The gravel in the creek’s bed does not remark on this.

Larch shadows across the meadow lie down in supplication.

In the small pond, the deer drink, the ducks are cool,

                                                        and the deep clouds hang still,

Half-moon rising behind my back.

If I had the ink, the paper, the knowledge of magical transformation,

I’d make a shorter poem,

                                            one of redemption lament.

The mountains of the past berate me,

                                       tell me I’m gone and will never be back.

Well, who can listen to them?

                  Still, I still see them, stoop-shouldered and shining.

What shadows, and how many rock-washed recalibrators

                                              will name us, or number us in time?

Not a one, Jim, not anybody.