Nuisance crow
on an old fencepost:
green field behind;
brown hills in the distance;
gravel road,
deadleaf trees,
white sky,
world all around —
when did it all become
not worth a mention?
I fear my sixth decade
will make me an old man yet.
(after Li Po)
And the crows
flew out of the storm
and took their places
among the branches;
and the sun
at the world’s edge
broke through the clouds;
and she paused at her loom,
the cawing of the crows reminding her
that she was alone,
the jaundiced light
reminding her how far behind
was her home by Qin River.
The mist-green thread she wove
had neither beginning nor end.
The crows called all night long
while the rain fell like her tears.
Bag of Anything 