In this gentle plunging wildness,
mountain trees grow into spring.
Blossoms are fragrant with hope
of death coming later in the year.
I could build a nice philosophy
out of this Yin-Yang paradox.
Instead I'll simply sit becalmed,
refusing my brush and paper.
Springtime can be a bad time
for those who fall prey to it,
for those who think of desires
as auguries of good fortune.
And spring is like a memory
before something happened. Ha!...
I laugh straight into the riddle.
I laugh so hard that four tears
trickle down to my crooked lips.
This cool morning wine is good.
Why wait for evening's permission?
Blossoms now dim to unknown colors,
a song is coming from their scattering.
Or...is that the lazy breeze whispering
a poem that could never be written?
I think this old mind is calming down.
Passion seems so absurd these days.
Who could love a hermit, anyway?
Tomorrow I might again dip my brush
into ink and try to make words dance.
If someone 'dances' to their rhythm,
I would take it as a quiet form of love.
That fog of branch-torn blossoms
now falls onto clear brook water.
And it complements another riddle:
how so much wine has made me sober.
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