SEPTEMBER 21, 2018

Odes to Cold Mountain

“The path to Han-shan’s place is laughable,

A path, but no sign of cart or horse.

And now I’ve lost the shortcut home,

Body asking shadow, how do you keep up?”

   – Snyder, from Cold Mountain Poems


Lowlands here in midwest sopping green.

September rain a new gray breath every hour.

By seven we walk out to the hydrant,

itself red as any spring cardinal, a spark,

erect, unscathed by any stirrings underground.

Two little curly terriers scoot by on leashes.

Master has his headphones securely attached.

His music bright sea waves lapping at dunes.