situationIn 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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