Pretending to Be A Fisherman

    After the Chinese of Li Yü (d. 978 CE)

1

My bark is but a leaf,

no oar

but the will
of the errant spring breeze,

this way, that way.

A loose line of fishing string,

on its end a light hook

might serve as rope

and anchor.

The destination:

that flower-covered islet.

The prize:

 an icy cask of wine.

Since nothing here is what it is,

but what it stands for,

one or ten thousand waves,

one or ten thousand realms,

what do they matter?

I do not need the island.

I do not, at the moment, crave

the plum green savor of wine.
I have my freedom.

2

Water, the chemist says,

is incompressible.

The delicate waves,

invisible and relentless,

a unity, break up
a thousand-piled layer

of warlike snowflakes.

They never stood a chance.

Now comes the onslaught:

cloud upon cloud upon cloud

of plum and peach and cherry

bannermen from Spring’s

inevitable and drumless army

throw themselves down

upon the snowbanks.

White mists enshroud

the waiting wine cask.
I sit with fishing rod and line.

One season has fought and won,

one season has held, and died.

I am doing nothing. This boat
is in a lake that was made for me,
the lake in my own valley
between two hills on which
I have identical pavilions.

Who else

could be as happy as I am?

[rev. 2022]