Court Street Press

Sometimes Rain

On the wall hangs a faded painting.
It’s by Wang Wei, perhaps,
or by old Tao Yuan, no matter,
that cloud-viewing mountain
in the broken distance beckons,

and the small pavilion nestled
beside a silver cascade
hints of fragrant tea brewed
from pure spring water, a full moon
rising at the hour of poetry,

and a poet there to praise it.
Could we not go there for a while
and savor the uncertain profound
pleasure of the stony stream,
the hesitant sky, the kissing mist,

and a friend’s deep-hearted company?
Rain descends, the kettle burbles,
the brazier warms our wrist.
Nearby a night bird calls.
Its quick trilling notes fall

to the water and rush away.
The wind scrapes against the roof,
painting the night tight about
the eaves and moves on to scumble
moonlight across the moss wet rocks.

from Borderlands, by J Yarrow © 1999

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