AN IDLE 9/9 AT HOME

Spending an idle 9/9 at home, I think fondly of how the
day’s name sounds like it’s saying ever and ever. Autumn
chrysanthemums fill the dooryard. But without wine, their
blossoms promising everlasting life are useless, so I trust my
feelings to words.

 

Life too short for so many lasting desires,

people adore immortality. When the months

return to this day of promise, everyone

fondly hears ever and ever in its name.

Warm winds have ended. Dew ice-cold,

stars blaze in crystalline skies. And now

swallows have taken their shadows south,

arriving geese keep calling and calling.

Wine eases worry, and chrysanthemums

keep us from the ruins of age, but if you

live in a bramble hut, helplessly watching

these turning seasons crumble—what then?

My empty winejar shamed by a dusty cup,

this cold splendor of blossoms opens for itself

alone. I tighten my robe and sing to myself,

idle, overwhelmed by each memory. So many

joys to fill a short stay. I’ll take my time

here. It is whole. How could it be any less?