April 22^nd, 2019

On the Summit of Tranquil Joy Temple

Who says poets are so enthralled with mountains?
Mountains, mountains, mountains
I've raved on and on,
And they're still clamoring for attention.
If I climb an hour, I need to rest for three.
When your desk is piled full,
You just can't add anything more,
And when your withered stomach is full,
Who can keep eating?
So what good's even a faint scrap of mist or
Kingfisher-green?
I'll wrap it all up, send the whole bundle off
To my city friends.