Thirtyfirst

[rejectomorph]

The last full night of October has been remarkably clear, and the waning moon remains bright, illuminating the pale fallen leaves that make the dark lawn a rich brocade. Orion now treads halfway down the western sky before sunrise. Despite the stillness of the chill air, I now and then hear the sound of wind chimes from a nearby yard. There is something forlorn about the end of October, but for me it is a pleasant melancholy the time induces. This is a season for celebrating all that passes, and laying to rest all regrets. It's only a little time, after all, and the cold is not merely endurable, but invigorating. A warm coat is all I need, and I can watch the enduring stars.



Sunday Verse

In the Mountains as Autumn Begins

by Wen T'ing Yen


Cold air drains down from the peaks.
Frost lies all around my cabin.
The trees are bare. Weak sunlight
Shines in my window. The pond
Is full and still. The water
Is motionless. I watch the
Gibbons gather fallen fruit.
All night I hear the deer stamping
In the dry leaves. My old harp
Soothes all my trouble away.
The clear voice of the waterfall
In the night accompanies my playing.

translated by Kenneth Rexroth