Listening Long and Late

To Po Chü-i

62 to Po Chü-i This evening, by the lower pond, I read again your poems written in old age and sickness. Young, you wondered what it all came to. White-haired, you grew idle and free from longing. I once believed if I dug deep enough I’d come out the other side to China. It was true, in ways I couldn’t know. In the clear gaze of your poems, I understand that I have spent my life digging in a world of appearances. Yet here I am, watching shadows lengthen across the pond, still wondering what it all comes to, head over heels, as usual. ...