I.
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.
II.
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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