THINKING OF IMPOVERISHED ANCIENTS

1

Ten thousand things, and yet nothing

without refuge but lone cloud. Into dusk –

vanishing into empty skies, into dusk,

when will last light ever grace it again?

Flushed dawn sky breaking through last

night’s fog, birds take flight together:

they venture carefully from the woods,

and wing home again well before evening.

Hoarding strength and guarding life apart,

how could anyone avoid hunger and cold?

If there’s no one left who understands,

then that’s that: what would you mourn?

 

2

Bitter cold. The year ending like this,

I sun on the front porch, my coat closed.

There’s nothing left of our south garden,

and dead limbs fill orchards to the north.

I try the ricejar: not a grain. I peer

inside the stove: no sign even of smoke.

It’s late afternoon, classics piled nearby,

but I can’t read in peace. This idle life –

it’s not like Confucius in Ch’en, people

half-starved, but they’re angry here, too,

and say so. Is there any solace? All those

ancients living this same enlightened life?