Mist-veiled plants in the little garden
reach to the house next door;
mulberry trees make deep shade,
one small path slanting through.
I lie down to read T’ao’s poems—
less than one chapter,
when fine rain brings an excuse
to jump up and hoe the melons.
In village south, village north,
the wood-pigeons call;
water spikey with new seedlings,
stretching calm into the distance.
Round the sky’s edge I’ve traveled,
a thousand, ten thousand miles,
now-of all things—I take lessons in spring planting
from the old man next door.?
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