This winter day <br />the wind is making ripples <br />even between the stones at the water's edge <br />and the mist almost hides the tops <br />of the mountains <br /> <br />only I am listening to the heron's cry <br /> <br />I brought my brush and pen and paper and ink block <br />but there is no poem here; <br />Nature is hiding her secrets today <br />like a silent woman in her winter coat. <br /> <br />I could write how last summer <br />we stood here laughing together <br />at the reflection of the moon <br />trembling in our bowls of rice wine <br />while the candles drifted down the river <br />in their paper boats <br /> <br />like this memory <br /> <br />but I shall walk back now <br />through the winter woods <br />where the thin trees <br />are secretly, secretly <br />preparing for Spring.<br /><br />Michael Shepherd<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/from-the-chinese-perhaps/
