rejectomorph (flying_blind) wrote,
rejectomorph
flying_blind

Stirring

Gusty winds come and go all night. As most leaves yet remain, two sounds emerge; The intimate rustle of oaks, which is like stiff, ruffled skirts and petticoats worn by a gaggle of laughing girls who rush to some party for which they are late: and (from higher up, as it seems) the aspirate, rising and falling whisper of the pines, which has a hollowness that is like the echo of a crowd's roar diminished by distance. Other sounds punctuate this ongoing stir. Twigs crack, acorns fall, branches scrape groans and squeals, and fallen leaves skitter along the street. Then the wind ceases for a while, and quiet reveals the chirring katydids until the air is again stirred. I can hear the wind approach, and then listen to it diminish as it departs, again and again. The autumn night is an animated place.

Very late, the thin smile of the waning moon rises, but isn't there long before the dark sky begins to glow with deep blue. By then, Orion is past meridian. Three months from now, this time of morning will find him sinking into the pine woods to the west, and winter will be here. Those nights, the wind will cut and bite, and will bring no conceit of rustling skirts to mind. It is early autumn's wind that blows delightful fancies, while the night air is yet deliciously cool, not cold, and shivers are more apt to be a pleasure than a sign of discomfort. This has been the first night of autumn wind this year. I hope for many more.




Sunday is here again. I wasn't expecting it so soon. I feel as though a day or two were missing from the last week. I must pay closer attention.



Sunday Verse


Country House


by Ch'u Ch'uang I


I planted a hundred acres of mulberry trees
And thirty acres of rice.
Now I have plenty of silk and grain,
And can afford to entertain my friends.
In the Spring I plant rice.
In the Autumn I gather chrysanthemums
And perfume the wine with their petals.
My wife enjoys being hospitable.
My children like to help serve.
Late afternoon, we give a picnic
At the back of the overgrown garden
In the shade of the elms and willows.
My friends drink until they are inspired.
The fresh breezes cool the heat of the day.
After everyone has gone home,
I walk out under the Milky Way,
And look up at the countless stars
That watch me from heaven.
I still have plenty of jugs in the cellar.
Nobody will prevent me
From opening some more tomorrow.


-translated by Kenneth Rexroth
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