Three Ming vases rusticate in a ring.
I choose one, for its simple garden scene
razes my poems to rice grass. Cardinals sing;
a beanpole fronts a lean-to; flutes flash clean.
Fishermen in a horizonless haze
apostrophize the ancestral spirits
who tramp the mountains and the forest ways.
The noontide turns. An urchin child near its
dharma guardian answers slights to newts
and skinks, but shuns the cross-eyed billygoat.
Tacking east, across dreamscape river routes,
vase painting glides the Ming by sampan boat,
where once we two, Christina Ladylove,
mulled a blushing maple moon, balmed thereof.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem