After the poems of Da Mei
A Poem About A Painting About Some Poems
On rock with sprigs in cold she tunes her lute;
the tone, unseen, she, lonesome ‘mong the shoots.
The green of seasons past all timely gone;
the eye has missed the meaning of the song.
As close to her and horse as to be felt:
a watcher, anyone, behold the melt
of milky sky or water, feel the chill
the summer gone, the wind come down the hill.
The orange vest, red leaves, the blushing horse
red at the bit, embarrassed at the force
of all his labor bringing her to this,
a singer, song unseen, sat in the mist
who, in the end, pretend we hear her cry
record it though it vanish in her sky.
Forever for us might the song she sing.
Watch as we might, we’ll never see the thing.
Originally appeared in Little Epic — subscribe for free!
