March 05^th, 2015

On a trail atop White-Crane’s green cliffs,
My recluse friend’s home in solitude,
Step and courtyard empty; water and rock,
Forest and creek free of ax and fish trap.
Months and years perfect old pines here.
Wind and frost keep bitter bamboo sparse.
Gazing deep, ancestral ways my own again,
I set out wandering toward the simple hut.