Sweeping the Tombs

 by Brett Rutherford

     adapted from Li Yü, Poem 11

So many trees above,
almost no sky. Lazy,
I linger alone in the hut
the caretaker lives in.
Ancient pines moan,
whisper my father’s name,
and his, and his.

This early April night
might go on forever. Warm now,
a moment later I am shivering.
Cold nights will soon be over.

The Feast of Qingming
ended just yesterday.
With my own hands I swept
the tomb of my father,
and his, and his.

Others swept clean of leaves
and sand and pebbles,
the graves of imperial uncles,
of consorts whose names
nobody remembers,
and of several dread dowagers
whose ghosts demanded
     extra incense
and more circling 'round
as the prayers went up.

Ancestors appeased,
the earth is free
to mark the end of Spring.

The out-of-focus moon
is its own ghost tonight.
Clouds roll, and down the slope
a breeze torments
the budding peach and apricot.

Who is impatient for summer?
And who, down there,
sits on a swing and chatters,
laughing and gossiping?

My heart is one with myself,
but for my land and its people,
ten thousands threads of thought
go out to who knows where
for who knows what response. 

Even the Son of Heaven
cannot find room enough
to untangle one small web
of one night’s thoughts.

Given the whole world
to unravel it, I still would not
have any idea
what I am supposed to do.

Those below earth
and in the sky, lend me
at least, if nothing else,
a calm demeanor.