EAST SLOPE

1

Who would choose such deserted ruins,

broken walls choked in brambleweed,

who wear themselves out on this land,

work all year to harvest some pittance:

no one but a lone wanderer heaven’s

condemned. No escape, I found myself

here cleaning away broken roof-tiles,

soil parched with drought, precarious

paths all tangled thorn-bramble grass.

And now I hope to scrape out a living.

I pause at the plow to catch my breath

and imagine the granary stacked full.

2

These abandoned weed-infested fields

high and low, they all have their use:

valley wetlands perfect for fine rice,

eastern uplands for date and chestnut.

An old friend living south of the river

promised to send some mulberry seeds,

and lovely bamboo isn’t hard to start.

The only worry is how fast it spreads.

I still need to find the best house-site,

and as I survey ch’i’s movements here,

the houseboy burning off dry grasses

comes running: he’s uncovered a well!

I can’t promise a feast anytime soon,

but the drinking-gourd’s a breeze now.

4

We got the rice in before Bright-Clarity,

and now I’m counting the joys to come.

Rain-feathered sky will darken spring

ponds, shouts welcoming green needles,

and we’ll transplant them by summer,

rejoice as windblown leaves tower up,

shimmering with dew in the moonlight,

each one dangling silk-threaded pearls.

Seed-clusters heavy with autumn frost,

they’ll topple over against each other,

then we’ll listen to it: locust song adrift

all across the fields, like wind and rain.

And soon the rice-pot’s full, fresh-hulled

jade-white kernels lighting the basket.

I’ve always been paid government fare,

rust-rot rice no better than gritty mud,

but now, at last, I’ll savor such flavors:

it’s a promise made to belly and tongue.