Classic Poem

Inside the fence the plum takes in spring, opens a little,
scent penetrating the stitched drape, scrawny twigs aslant.
I cut fabric, take up a measure, and blow on my fingers;
to make some tea, I call a maid to break the ice.
A starved bird goes on pecking at nandin berries;
I cut some narcissus and arrange it in a silver vase.
At times a flurry of snow patters like flying bugs,
leaving several spots blurred on the blue silk cloth.