rejectomorph (flying_blind) wrote,
rejectomorph
flying_blind

Blown

The day went breezy, soft green oak leaves flicking sunlight as they rustled, and birds veering in flight as though tossed off course by sudden gusts. Spring scents rode the changing drifts of air, bringing hints of the grassy fields beyond the woods. The sudden chill of dusk sent me in to fetch a sweater so I could watch in comfort the sliver of spring's first moon emerge among the thin, lavender clouds beyond the pine branches. The woodpeckers chattered their last calls of the day and the frogs began their nocturnal song. No crickets are chirping yet, though. I'm eager to hear the crickets. It won't really feel like spring until they arrive.



Sunday Verse



A Gentle Wind


by Fu Hsüan


A gentle wind fans the calm night;
A bright moon shines on the high tower.
A voice whispers, but no one answers when I call:
A shadow stirs, but no one comes when I beckon.
The kitchen man brings in a dish of lentils:
Wine is there, but I do not fill my cup.
Contentment with poverty is fortune's best gift:
Riches and Honour are the handmaids of Disaster.
Though gold and gems by the world are sought and prized,
To me they seem no more than weeds, or chaff.

—translated by Arthur Waley
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