ROTATION

In the ebbing sun of afternoon

I sit head down, too aware

loose thoughts won’t always build ideas.

Regrettable, as if recalling green shoots

in April wind, their shivery wings.

Or the soft plash of fish in the river.

Outside, autumn light’s uncertain where to go.

I sit alone in dusk’s faint chill,

waiting to answer the vast universe.

Why can’t I grasp that knowledge and judgement

should lessen the errors of my words?

If time brings neither wind nor snow,

how can upright bamboo

sketch the image of one’s study

closed off from a distasteful world.

Why hold with old wisdom?

Art’s golden needle is its gift.