Classic Poem

A kite's feathers, too, have preened in the first shower
a sweep of wind, and the leaves calm down
still in the morning his pants get wet as he crosses a stream
a small bamboo bow for scaring badgers
an ivy crawls on a slatted door under the evening moon
his famous pears are given to no one
as he dashes off ink drawings to enjoy himself, autumn ends
— I'm so comfortable in these knit socks —
all is quiet while nothing is said
a village comes into view, and someone blows a conch for noon
a frazzled sleeping mattress from last year, losing its shape
lotus petals scatter, fluttering
— This soup with Suizenji weed is excellent —
— I have to go about three li —
this spring too, Lu T'ung's manservant stays on
his cutting rooted on a moon-hazy night
he put a stone basin, though mossy, alongside the blossoms
— My anger this morning has cured itself —
— I've eaten two days worth of food in one sitting —
snowy and cold, the island's north wind
come darkness, he climbs to a hilltop temple to light the lamp
all the cuckoos have stopped calling
lean-fleshed, she still isn't strong enough to raise herself
borrowing a neighbor's space he pulled in his carriage
— He's the one who saddens me — I'll let him through the syringa hedge —
now at parting she hands him his sword
hair hurriedly scratched with a comb
— Look at this determined death struggle! —
daybreak moon in the blue sky, as the morning comes
autumn over the lake water, first frost on Hira
a brushwood hut: the man makes a poem when his buckwheat gets stolen
— I'm becoming used to wadded clothes these windy evenings —
after sleeping in a crowded room he again rises from his rented pillow
when the clouds from the foundry are still red in the sky
one house makes cruppers with blossoms by its window
among the old leaves of a loquat, buds begin to sprout