August 20^th, 2017

The wind sings in the tall pines,
The evening rain falls lightly,
The east hermitage half obscured,
The west hermitage closed.
I’ve traveled all day in the mountains
Without meeting a soul,
Pungent and permeating,
The wild plums fill our sleeves with fragrance,
The mountain monks laugh
At my fondness for this unsullied landscape.
They are weary of the deep mountains
They are unable to leave.