from “From a Winter Notebook”
* * *Friends send for me; I close the doors.
The spring is bitter to me.
Had I the phoenix hair-pins
I would crush them thoughtlessly
against the pillows, wrap myself
in gauze and silk, past midnight
sit occupied with scissors, trim
the flowering lamp. No dreams
come, at least none worth sleeping.
I hear there are still beautiful
places, but winds may be too strong
and I'm done writing on blossoms.
I copy verses from old books
and talk with ancestors who know
you can't keep petals from falling.
I'd rather face the passing hours
facing a wine cup. Staleness
settles on once fragrant ponds
and nothing keeps the fog out.
I've studied, but it's best to keep
my thoughts to myself, embrace
the age — as Li Ching-Chao — forget
about reputation. Stay home,
do very little, least I can.
Deep courtyards turn the sound of leaves
startled by a breeze... why are they
still there from previous winter?
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