Sunday Morning

[rejectomorph]

Dawn approaches with its hammer of heat. As yet, there is but a hint of color in the world. The sky is more gray than blue, and the green of trees and bushes is so deep as to suggest shadow more than form. The first true green to emerge is that of the lawns. A few suggestions of pink and purple hover like clouds around flowering trees, but the actual clouds which striate the east soon outglow them, flushing with what seems an inner light. Awakening birds pipe their presence just as the redness of camellia blossoms is restored, the shadow in which they lurked all night receding behind the newly greened leaves. Lilac can now be distinguished from the white cherry blossoms, and young oak leaves emerge from the dark needles of their neighboring pines. Woodpeckers begin to drill for their morning meal, and the clouds turn gold and white. The younger cat is eager to go out and explore the flourishing day, but the elder hops onto the bed, as content as I to nap while the forest wakes.

THE WILD FLOWER MAN

by Lu Yu


Do you know the old man who
Sells flowers by the South Gate?
He lives on flowers like a bee.
In the morning he sells mallows,
In the evening he has poppies.
His shanty roof lets in the
Blue sky. His rice bin is
Always empty. When he has
Made enough money from his
Flowers, he heads for a teahouse.
When his money is gone, he
Gathers some more flowers.
All the spring weather, while the
Flowers are in bloom, he is
In bloom, too. Every day he
Is drunk all day long. What does
He care if new laws are posted
At the Emperor's palace?
What does it matter to him
If the government is built
On sand? If you try to talk
To him, he won't answer but
Only give you a drunken
Smile from under his tousled hair.

translated by Kenneth Rexroth

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