after Wang Wei
Mother:
We have to say good-bye again so soon.
Another seam torn open, another hole in the pocket
discovered too late.
You’re going where the snow falls
as rain; you’re leaving
through the gate that opened in a wall of clouds:
go quickly.
Call me every night unless you’re happy.
Then I can tell myself
that all the silent evenings
are what I want.
Son:
You’ve done all you can — be satisfied.
More and my thanks would be
like tea steeped too long,
tinged with bitterness.
The bear is dreaming somewhere under the snow
but I can’t sleep for thinking of the road
that changes color: gray here, yellow in the south.
Don’t worry. I’ll greet the wild goose for you,
the one you fed all summer
in the reeds by the wide river.