POETRY OF NONSENSE, #2
Your snow is not mine. My snow is in the courtyard.
In early morning I walk out, find snow on the ground
with my dog’s footprints—but not the way one draws
on a blank sheet of paper. No, it’s a freehand landscape.
My dog draws without intention. Still I see mountains
and waters there—I see Mt. Emei and River Minjiang
with clouds hanging and a beautiful woman washing clothes.
You might say I’m far-fetched, and maybe I am.
I can go even further, be more far-fetched
and say I see philosophy in the snow, not Kant
or Kierkegaard but a philosophy of fleeting moments.
Have you experienced keeping your eyes focused on something,
only to see it disappear quietly? That is happening now.
I’ve stood on this porch for less than an hour,
half of the ground has surfaced—things are returning
to the original form. My snow is perhaps not snow,
but something to show me the meaning of loss.