I’VE PUT IN GARDENS SOUTH OF THE FIELDS, OPENED UP A STREAM AND PLANTED TREES

Woodcutter and recluse—they inhabit

these mountains for different reasons,

and there are other forms of difference.

You can heal here among these gardens,

sheltered from rank vapors of turmoil,

wilderness clarity calling distant winds.

I ch’i-sited my house on a northern hill,

doors opening out onto a southern river,

ended trips to the well with a new stream

and planted hibiscus in terraced banks.

Now there are flocks of trees at my door

and crowds of mountains at my window,

and I wander thin trails down to fields

or gaze into a distance of towering peaks,

wanting little, never wearing myself out.

It’s rare luck to make yourself such a life,

though like ancient recluse paths, mine

bring longing for the footsteps of friends:

how could I forget them in this exquisite

adoration kindred spirits alone can share?