In fields of bush clover and hay-scent grass <br />the autumn moon takes refuge <br />The cricket's song is gold <br />Zeshin's loneliness taught him this <br />Who is coming? <br />What will come to pass, and pass? <br />Neither bruise nor sweetness nor cool air <br />not-knowing <br />knows the way <br />And the moon? <br />Who among us does not wander, and flare <br />and bow to the ground? <br />Who does not savor, and stand open <br />if only in secret <br />taking heart in the ripening of the moon?<br /><br />Margaret Gibson<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/autumn-grasses/
