I lie on my back, river pavilion warmth,
intone poems, gaze out over the fields.
Flowing water—my mind doesn’t try to keep up;
lingering clouds—my thoughts match their slowness.
Silently, silently, spring about to end;
joyful, joyful, each thing in its own nature.
Can’t go home to my old woods yet—
to battle gloom I make myself write poems