Classic Poem

In a new house greeting the first of the year,
opening doors on bright clear weather:
below the stairs, shallow water flows,
rippling already with the sound of spring.
Bending by the current, I wash my inkstone,
purple of the stone reflecting green of hills.
In such an out-of-the-way spot, few visitors —
I'm pleased to be spared all that greeting and goodbyeing.
A place to live this peaceful —
it fits exactly with what I've always wanted;
only I regret that business of my mother,
not arranging to have her come live with me.
How can I share this wine with her,
see her gentle face smiling as she lifts the cup?
I grind some ink, write a letter home
in a drunken hand that keeps straying out of line.