I would like to write poems of idleness, like Po Chü-i. But who would read them?
You. A visitor curious, accidental. In a rush?
Po all white hair, ancient with his wine, lamplight, bamboo and pine trees:
writing on hut walls. Sweeping an empty courtyard. Travelling mountain roads.
I walk Mira along the Trans Canada Trail, sun low, evergreens laden with snow.
In the evening, sitting with a glass of beer, the urge to achieve at rest.
For a moment.
Carrying an armload of firewood up from the basement. At fifty-four
I’ve discovered Bob Dylan. In another room he’s singing Simple Twist of Fate.